


I Called You

by magicgenetek



Category: Adventure Time
Genre: Consent Issues, Decapitation, Gen, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mind Control, Mushroom Wars, Possession, Post-Apocalypse, Pre-Ooo, Romantic Comedy, Self-Harm, so satan and an ice elemental try to raise an eight year old in hell...
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-11-05
Updated: 2013-04-03
Packaged: 2017-11-18 02:26:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 42,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/555850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magicgenetek/pseuds/magicgenetek
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Simon's plan to hand Marceline off to her demon father and abscond before he goes completely off the deep end backfires when they invite him to live with them in the Nightosphere.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Simon woke up in the back of a car. He peeked out from under his grimy blanket; the eye monster was still ogling him from a nearby shelf, and a friend had joined it. Simon grimaced at them and rolled up his blanket.

 

He remembered falling asleep in this car last night. The garage was still rusty from age and dried blood, and most of the creatures that had followed him in last night had left. Only the eye monster and its friend were still hanging around. The car doors remained closed, his pack was still in the front seat, and a notebook that said READ ME sat on his chest. A pink sticky note stuck out at him like an errant tongue.

 

Simon knew what was in it, but he flipped to the sticky note to read it anyway. Just in case.

 

 _Dear Simon_ , said his own handwriting.  _This is Simon. I'm writing this because my memory's gotten worse and I need to make sure I don't forget what's going on._

 

There was a picture of a sharp-eared girl with a red shirt.  _This is Marceline. I traveled with her for a long time, but I'm getting crazier and crazier. I wasn't safe to travel with her anymore. Her dad is a demon, not from this world, so I left her to find the items needed to summon him and reunite them. I found the ritual to summon him, and the items necessary to summon him, and now I'm going back to Marceline. I don't remember how long I've been gone, but I think she'll be safe. She learned how to turn into a tentacle beast and we found a lot of food for her to eat before I left. (The turning into a tentacle thing is real. Don't be surprised.)_

 

_Remember: don't yell at Marceline. You can't trust what you can see, but you can trust what you can touch. Don't believe anything the crown says._

 

He closed the notebook and put it in his pack. He made sure his drumsticks were still in their pocket, checked that he had all his notebooks, made sure that the candles of saponified flesh hadn't broken against the unholy chalk, double-checked that the sacred clarinet reed dagger hadn't poked a hole in anything, fingered the knot that attached the crown to his belt, and pulled out a scavenged granola bar for breakfast.

 

The eye monsters jumped away when he slammed open the car door. He grabbed his pack out of the front of the car, then hefted open the garage door and scurried away.

 

Once he found a spot of sunlight in the wreckage of the suburbs, he pulled out the egg-shaped stone on a rope around his neck. This, he hadn't forgotten about. He pricked his finger on the needle at the end and waited for a drop of blood hit the white stone before saying, “Find Marceline Abadeer.”

  
  
The stone glowed and rose up, circling his head to point toward the city in the mountains. Simon turned until he faced it, then followed it.

 

~*~*~

 

Some of the pavement here was shattered from the fighting. Others had been cracked open by new plant growth, ivy groping for great handfuls of sidewalk and caressing the lower parts of buildings. Houses here huddled together, shoulder to shoulder, ashen-faced from the fallout.

 

One of these houses had belonged to a paranoid couple. They had piled their basement with canned food and first aid for the coming end of the world. Simon had found their animated corpses pawing at the basement door and had carted them out before they could attempt to eat Marceline. Somewhere in this neighborhood was a house with two clumsy graves in front of it, and that was where he had left Marceline.

 

The egg-shaped stone dragged him forward. Three blocks, five, through a backyard and over a fence, past a doghouse with a skeleton still curled inside, and to a house with two halves of broken pavement shoved into the dirt.

 

He knocked on the door.

 

Footsteps scrambled from inside. The door snapped open, and something red and soft hit him in the face.

 

Simon stumbled back as Hambo fell onto his shoulder, and then Marceline ran over and grabbed his waist in a tight hug and he fell on his butt. “Simon!”

  
  
“Marceline - “

  
  
"You're back!"

  
  
"Marceline, I- "

 

“I thought you had left forever and I was worried and Hambo had to be my only friend for a while and I was really worried and - “

 

“Marceline, **get off**!”

 

Her eyes went big and she scrambled off him. Simon checked the bag for the candles, the chalk. He saw something written on the back of his hand in black ink.

 

_Don't yell at Marceline._

 

He bit his lip. “I'm sorry.” What was wrong with him? He couldn't just go to her, could he? He should go, he should go, that was wrong and he should go, put the crown on and go -

 

“It's ok, Simon.” Marceline patted his head. “You're still really weird. What's in the bag that you're worried about?”

 

“Oh. Uh.” He untangled his hands from his hair and opened up his bag. “I found stuff.” He pulled out the candles.   
  


“The candles smell like bacon. Can I eat them?” Marceline sniffed at the candles, and Simon pulled them away before she could try and bite them.  

 

“No, they're hard to find!” Marceline whined and plopped onto his lap. She started pawing through his pack as he continued. “They're magic candles. I figured out how to summon your father and the candles are part of it.”

 

“Woah.” Marceline took out the unholy chalk. “Is it supposed to be pink?”

 

“I had to make those from scratch and pink was the only color I had,” Simon said. Marceline hummed and put them back. “It took a while to find a place with anti-consecrated water, but the same cult that had the candles – hey, the camera!”

 

Marceline took it out and pointed it at him. “Can we take more pictures? You've been gone for months, Simon! I want to have more pictures! I got bigger and I found new clothing and I gave Hambo a new eye and I figured out how to be a bigger monster! Come on, Simon, let's go inside!” She tugged on his tie and the egg necklace a couple times until he hopped onto his feet; she dragged him by the collar into the house, and he barely managed to close the door behind them.

 

She put him on the couch and put some dirty blankets on his lap.“Stay there! I'll make food.” She used a lighter to boil water, then put it in a ramen cup and gave it to him. She snuggled up next to him as he slurped his lunch; by the time he was done, she was snoring on his knee.

 

Simon should have been worried that she trusted him so easily. It had been at least six months since he'd seen her, given how tall she'd gotten, and she still came to his arms like a lamb to slaughter. He knew, intellectually, that the sooner he left, the better for her. He was a danger. He was bad. But her sleeping on his lap made his chest feel warm and full.

 

He tugged a blanket over his head so that he didn't notice the gaping mawbest pressed against the window and let himself drift to sleep.

 

~*~*~

 

Most of the invisible monsters lived in the basement. For that reason, Simon let Marceline handle the food so that he wouldn't get stuck waving a broom at a creature no one else could see. Instead, he prepared for the ritual.

 

For breakfast, she brought up beans and rice and he cleared the living room of the carpet and the sofa. For lunch, Marceline got out canned peaches and Simon started drawing the magic circle. For dinner, Marceline laughed at how Simon was covered in pink chalk dust before making more ramen for them. And as they awaited midnight, Simon set up the candles and Marceline got out a little bag of M&Ms she'd been saving.

 

“I was going to use it for my ninth birthday, but I thought you coming back was more special – Simon! Simon, don't cry!”

 

At ten minutes to midnight, he lit the candles; the house was filled with a smell akin to bacon. At five minutes, Simon flipped open his notebook with the ritual chant and hopped into the center of the magic circle so that he didn't disrupt the chalk. At two minutes, he tested cutting his finger with the clarinet reed dagger, then shoved his finger in his mouth so he wouldn't start the ritual early.

 

“Why's it so important to use your blood for this, Simon?”

 

“The ritual needs the blood of a virgin over the age of 18. You're too young for it,” he said.

 

“Simon, what's a virgin?”

 

Simon's ears turned pink. “Um, I, ah. When we summon your father, you can ask him.”

 

“Ok!”

 

At midnight, Simon sliced his palm open with the dagger and let his blood fall in the center of the circle. “Malum sit uobiscum et cum spiritu!”

 

Nothing happened. A great deal of nothing happened.

 

“Is that supposed to happen?” Marceline asked from the couch.

  
  
Simon grimaced. “No. The portal should be opening.”

  
  
“We can do it again tomorrow!” Marceline said. She crossed her arms. “Come over here before you get mad at yourself for stupid reasons.”  
  
  
Simon's hands bunched and he opened his mouth. He closed it. He checked his hand for advice.  _Don't yell at Marceline._

 

He sighed and hopped back through the chalk lines, then collapsed on the couch next to Marceline. “Maybe the sacrifice wasn't enough.”

 

“What more do you need?” Marceline snuggled up to him, all heat and scaly skin.

 

“Maybe I need to cut out my heart and put it on there. Blood may not be enough.”

 

“Simon, you can't cut out your heart!” Marceline yelled, and pushed him. “You'd die! And it'd be really hard to do!”

 

“Actually, I think that I could survive that. Remember that time when I got impaled and I pulled the pipe out and it healed up in a few days?” He patted his stomach. “There's not even a scar left!”

 

Marceline pushed him again. “Stop it! That's not funny! Stop smiling!”

 

“Oh.” He flopped back. She sat on his lap and smacked his chest a few times. Simon closed his eyes and dragged his nails through his hair and down his arms.

 

“Simon, stop. You're getting blood everywhere.” Marceline grabbed his hand and held it. “Calm down, Simon.”

 

The maw-mouthed monster was still pressed against the window. Simon looked away from it, from Marceline, closed his eyes and dug his nails into the flesh behind his jaw. Marceline huffed and grabbed his other hand, then peered at the writing on it. “What's this? I can't read it.”

 

“'s in Russian.”

 

“Weird.” Marceline waved his hands. “I'm taking your hands. You're not allowed to use them until you stop being so weird.”

 

“Ok, Marceline.”

 

“Are you two done?”

 

Simon squawked. Marceline hopped off his lap and around to find the voice, baring her fangs.

 

While they had talked, distracted, the chalk circle had opened into a portal. And sticking through it was a, a, a -

 

“Onion head, what do you want?” Marceline said. Simon swallowed; so he really was seeing a big white circular thing with eyes and a, a sideways mouth. Where had he put the knife? He scrambled for it, and his hand closed around cold metal.

 

Crown.

 

Crown was good. Crown was better than knife. He gripped it and stood behind Marceline.

 

“What do you want from the Lord of Evil, the Leader of the Nightosphere?”

 

“We want to find my dad!”

 

The onion head laughed, the sideways mouth gaping obscenely. Simon clutched the crown. "Why would I know how to find your father? I don't scry things! I eat souls." It leaned toward Marceline. The mouth was big enough to swallow Marceline whole. "Should I eat your soul?"

 

Before Simon could grab her, Marceline punched the onion in the eye. It howled. Simon grabbed her and hopped behind the couch and hid there and dragged nails down his forehead with his free hand.

 

"Simon, I can take it! Let me go after it, Simon!"

 

Simon tightened his grip around her waist. "Marceline, no. We don't punch demons in the face when we're asking them to find your father. Even if he is a demon, they might still eat us for being rude."

 

"Her father's a demon, is he?" The demon peeked over the couch. Simon squeaked and leaned away from it. Marceline glared. "What's his name?"

 

Marceline smacked the face again. "He's Hunson Abadeer!"

 

"He's - "

 

The demon disappeared. Simon counted backwards from ten, then peeked over the couch. Marceline shoved his chin out of the way and looked with him as the demon hopped out of the portal and shrank, the onion head withering into a tiny, human neck and scaly blue skin zipped it up, and the teeth were zippers, and Marceline didn't have those high cheekbones or square jaw but there was something about the round eyes and the flat nose that screamed family resemblance.

 

He wore a suit and a red tie. His shoes were red leather. He walked towards them. Simon tightened his grip on the crown, ice and snow, blood dripped on the floor. His blood. He couldn't run from this position. He had to protect Marceline. The human body was made of 90% water and a demon could easily have a similar amount. 

 

The demon knelt in front of Marceline. "Was your mother Beatrice?"

 

"Yeah," said Marceline.

 

"I can see the resemblance." The demon stroked Marceline's cheek. "She didn't tell me she was pregnant. Something must have happened so she couldn't tell me," he said. He held out his hand to Marceline. His nails were finely filed into sharp tips. "I'm Hunson Abadeer."

 

Marceline ignored the hand and hugged him. Hunson kept it outstretched for a long moment before hugging her gingerly. Simon wondered if he was afraid of breaking her. He was a demon, after all. Demons were probably as strong as ice monsters and needed to be careful. He eyed the door. If he could just crawl over there before anyone noticed, he could leave Marceline safely with her father and be done with everything. 

 

He heard something. "What?"

 

"I said, are you her evil guardian?" said Hunson.

 

"I'm not evil," Simon said automatically. Marceline nodded emphatically, but Hunson's mouth looked like it was starting to split down the middle. Bad. No. Um. "I'm chaotic neutral."

 

"Chaos is good! Or evil in this case," said Hunson, and his mouth closed back up. "Come on. Marceline says you're coming with us."

 

"Coming?" Simon managed. He scrambled to his feet; Marceline had dragged his pack over. Hambo waved out of the front. Simon picked it up and put it on his back. "Where are we going?" Marceline grabbed his hand and he followed. It seemed right.

 

"You're coming with me to the Nightosphere. It's a lot better than this crummy place!" Hunson clapped Simon's shoulder a few times. His hand was warm. Simon let him and Marceline manhandle him to the portal.

 

Hunson wrapped an arm around them both; Simon wrapped his arms back over Hunson's shoulders for stability and closed his eyes. 

 

The ground vanished under his feet. Hunson had jumped through the portal.


	2. Chapter 2

The first thing Simon noticed about the Nightosphere was the heat. Back on Earth, it had been nearing winter, and the elevation meant that even if Simon wasn't turning into a nice thing - an ice thing, he'd have been breathing frost. Fortunately, both he and Marceline could shrug off the temperature; he'd never seen her sweating. He wasn't sure if she could sweat, actually, since she was kind of scaly. How did demons work? Was there even a set thing? Would she have an onion for a head when she grew up?  
  
The second thing was that they never landed. Hunson's arm felt bigger. Simon's grip on Hunson's shoulders slipped, and soon he was holding onto the thick arm itself. He thought.  
  
He dared to open his eyes.  
  
The Nightosphere - what a name, he thought, what did that even mean? It did appear to be spherical, with how the mountains in the distance sunk beneath the horizon, and the sky was not the dull bruisebrown of dirty clouds (stained ice in the air) or the brilliant rainbow of color of sun through pollution but a black so deep he couldn’t work out color in it. No stars, no sun, no moon, and yet there was light enough to prove the ground red, and the creatures who ran on it every shade from magenta to maroon, from pale to paisley. It smelled like rotten eggs and something spicy that itched the back of his throat. His ears felt stuffed up from the change in pressure, and through the static oozed screams and laughter and footsteps and noise.  
  
Where was the light that lighted this place? Light-headed, that’s what he was, from something. Heat, maybe, and humid, heavy on him. He gingerly used one hand to undo his collar. His head felt like the snow inside it had been blown out with one hot puff of air, and his thoughts were buzzing to fill the gap.  
  
Simon adjusted his grip on Hunson’s arm. Yes, it definitely was an arm, and the hand was large enough for him to sit on, so he slid down from mid-elbow and landed on the wide palm. It was warm, too, entirely too hot to be real. Heat, hot, hoot. Simon pulled off his glasses and rubbed the condensation off of them, then wiped his brow and pulled off his coat and tied it around his waist.  
  
The hand rose. Simon looked up and found Hunson’s head had ballooned to onioning again, and Marceline was sitting on his shoulder. “Simon, you should come up here!”  
  
Simon judged the width of Hunson’s shoulder and how close that huge onion head was to the edge. He shook his head quickly. “I’m fine here!” He sat cross-legged in the center of the hand, pulling off his pack and hugging it to steady himself. “Thank you for the ride, Mr. Abadeer!”  
  
Hunson’s sideways mouth twitched in what Simon thought was a smile. Simon couldn’t tell. “Of course!”  
  
The Nightosphere was too much. On his arm, he’d written: _Don’t believe what you can see. Believe what you can touch_. He had more than enough proof to say that the Nightosphere was real. He needed to take off another layer before he melted. He saw things and he heard things but his other senses had not lied to him yet. That was a certainty. So this was real.  
  
He let his eyes stay closed. This was safety, wasn’t it? He’d finally found it after five - after - after a long time. Too long. And Marceline was safe too. Safe. Yes. His head rocked forward and he drifted off.  
  
Shaking woke him up. Simon blinked blearily. It was Marceline, her face screwed up; she said something that was hard to hear and tugged on his collar. Simon picked up his pack and followed her off the hand and onto the patio that the hand was pressed up against. It overlooked the red rocks; a steel door lead into a great mansion of bone and black wood.  
  
“I have some work to do,” said Hunson, “so you two make yourselves comfortable at my house. I’ll be here in a few hours. Feel free to use the kitchen and the bathrooms and whatever, just don’t break anything.”  
  
Marceline was already unlocking the doors with a set of keys. Simon watched Hunson wander off before Marceline had his hand again and dragged him into the house. He didn’t have time to look at the pictures on the walls or to worry about tracking mud on the carpets because Marceline was busy taking him up the stairs, look, Simon, and around and into the different rooms until she found one she wanted.  
  
“This one,” she said at last. It was, like the rest of the mansion, red and black all over, but there were splotches of pink in it as well. Pillows and curtains.  
  
“This one?”  
  
“It smells like Mom,” Marceline said. She gestured, and Simon lowered his pack; she took Hambo out of it. “I bet she visited Dad here. She really liked pink.”  
  
“Oh,” said Simon. He wasn’t sure what else to say. He sat down and against the wall as Marceline showed Hambo around the room. It did smell nice in here; he couldn’t name the flower, but he was sure he’d smelled it before. It got rid of the rotten eggs from the outside. And the room was nice to be in. The carpet was really soft and the lights had pink shades over them, giving it an intimate feel. He hadn’t been anywhere with electric lighting for a long time, not since he’d escaped that cult.  
  
“Simon, what are you doing?”  
  
Simon blinked a couple times. “Sitting here.”  
  
“Go find your room.” Marceline patted him on the forehead. “I’m a big girl. I’m gonna take a bath and you should too. You got blood on your beard.”  
  
“Oh.” Simon smiled sheepishly and looked at his hand. The long slice from the dagger had already scabbed over, black and frost. He must have bled on himself when he was twitching. “I did, didn’t I? Oops.”  
  
Marceline giggled and hugged him. “You’re being silly. Go shower and go sleep, ok? I’ll be here in the morning.” As he returned it, his hand brushed the **crown** and  
  


 

  
he was on his feet and in another room. His books had been placed neatly on an empty bookshelf and his pack rested on the bottom. It was a bedroom with white curtains, white walls and he thought **snow.** Blizzard, cascading snowflakes, snow drifts gliding closer to press him up against the mirror so he could stare at himself, the kind of ice. Though it was still humid, goosebumps raised on his arms. His breath left frost on the glass.  
  
Simon looked up the mirror. The crown's reflection glinted back at him. He glared at it. “Up to your tricks again, are you?” He smacked it off and let it clatter on the floor; the room stopped looming. Simon gripped the sides of the mirror to steady himself and looked at himself.  
  
A stranger stared back.  
  
His hair was matted and filthy and dull grey with streaks of rusty blood scattered through it; his skin was the color of frostbite where it wasn't wasn’t bruise-black or dirt-slate; his cataracts almost swallowed his eyes, leaving only a thin corona of brown and bloodshot around them; his clothes were so filthy that they were stiff with dirt where they didn't cling to him. He looked like a snowman who got ambushed by an ashtray.  
  
Shaking, he stumbled to his pack. He got on his knees, fumbled through it and pulled out his switchblade. He flicked the blade out and in a few times before grabbing a chunk of his beard and hacking it off. Yank, and he winced before slicing off another part. Gathered up his matted mane and chopped, hair falling around him like dirty snow. He cut until there was barely a handful for him to grab.  
  
He'd cut his hand. Now both hands were covered in blood. He was dripping on the white floor and the dirt on his clothing was getting all over. Simon slammed the knife hilt-deep into the floor and then tried to tug it out. It was all going wrong, going wrong, wrong, what was wrong with him, he was wrong -  
  
“Shut up!”  
  
The crown’s silence condemned him. He sprung to his feet and pointed at it. “Stop that! I know what you’re thinking! I can see it in your jewels!”  
  
It didn’t even give him a glance. Simon snarled and stormed to the closet. He took out some boxes and put the crown in a box, then put that box in another box and shoved it under the bed.  
  
His heart throbbed in his chest. He caught his breath.  
  
There was a bathroom in the corner. Simon staggered into it and peeled off his clothing and put his glasses on the counter and found the shower, turned that on to the hottest setting, and quickly checked what was in it - how did what was sort of hell have shampoo and soap and he was not going to question his good luck, he was going to use it.  
  
He remembered a post, back when the internet existed. Trying to adjust the heat of the water coming out of the shower and getting it wrong was like Satan coming out of the shower head and licking the back of his neck. Or Marceline’s father, he supposed. He checked the shower head to make sure Hunson wasn’t popping out because Simon wasn’t at all clean enough for that sort of thing yet, tapped it a couple times to make sure it didn’t have a tongue. It didn’t. That could happen later, and now Simon was prepared for it.  
  
Fig bodywash and sage shampoo. He didn’t question it. The water was hot enough that he numbed after a few minutes. He scrubbed until he could see the translucent skin on his wrists, where his veins ran like a river under ice, and until his knuckles were raw. He washed his hair until he was sure every knot had been smoothed out.  
  
When he finally crept out of the shower, someone - something? - had taken away his old clothing and brought in new ones. He put his on the fuzzy blue bathrobe with yellow spots and poked his head into the bedroom, where the blood and hair had been cleaned up.

"Thank you," said Simon to thin air. There was nothing there, but he felt like he should say it anyway.  
  
The bed looked soft. Simon tested it and discovered that it was, in fact, soft. There were three blankets and they were all heavy and warm and soft.  
  
He was asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow.


	3. Chapter 3

Simon woke up to something slick and thin rubbing through his hair. He cracked his eyes open and pulled the sheet from over his head.  
  
A tentacle monster was sitting on his bed. The fanged mouth was curled in a smile as the many legs twined and shifted on the bed and his torso. Several of the tentacles were petting his hair and patted his shoulders as he sat up, rubbing sleep out of his eyes.  
  
“Morning, Marceline.” He patted her on the lumpy head.  
  
Marceline laughed and hugged him with most of her tentacles. “Hi, Simon!”  
  
He wrapped his arms around her. She sounded hoarser in this form, her teeth were more like his shark teeth instead her normal with fangs set, and her main body was thicker than her normal one, but she was still Marceline. Her tendrils wrapped around him, and her thick mouth huffed hot air against his chest.  
  
Simon held her for some time, his face resting against the top of what functioned as her head in this form. She smelled like she’d dumped a bottle of shampoo in her bathwater. So did he. She had bathed like he had; what a good child. And touching her with clean hands and her all cleaned up felt so different; his skin skidded against hers. And against his bare legs, the blankets were soft and warm. And when he moved his head, there was no weight of hair pulling against him.  
  
Marceline noticed and curled a tendril over his cheeks and ragged beard, smearing wetness. “What’s wrong?”  
  
“Nothing.” When he shook his head, his nose flopped against her head. Simon giggled through his tears at the absurdity of it and tugged her closer.  
  
“No, come on, Simon.” She poked his chest with a tentacle. “Tell me.”  
  
“Nope.”  
  
Marceline growled and wrapped her tentacles around his wrist, then hoisted him out of bed and into the air. Simon squeaked and scrambled to his feet as she lifted him; he ended up with his toes barely touching the bed. He gripped the tentacles just under his arms for support. “Marceline, put me down!”  
  
“No way! Not until you tell me!” She poked at his chest again. “You never tell me anything!”  
  
“I, I tell you lots of things!” Simon smacked her arm.  
  
“No, you don’t!” Oh, dammit, she sounded like she was crying. Simon squirmed, trying to wiggle out of her grasp. As an ice monster, he was strong.  
  
As a half-demon, she was stronger.  
  
She flipped him upside down, hiccuping. Simon flailed, caught between guilt and panic and the blood rushing to his head.  
  
And then her father came in the door. “What are you two doing?”  
  
Simon shrieked. His hands scrambled at the hem of his bathrobe - why was it so short - and pulled it down (up?) as far as he could. “Marceline, **put me down right now**!”  
  
She dropped him on the bed face-first. Simon scrambled onto his knees, quickly rearranging the flaps of the bathrobe to make sure as much of himself was covered as possible, and straightened a crimp in his long nose. Only then did he look up at Marceline and her father.  
  
Marceline had skittered off the bed and was now twitching back to human form, her limbs solidifying and turning from navy to teal to scaly blue. Her father just stared.  
  
Simon stood very carefully, hugging the edges of the bathrobe so he didn’t flash Marceline’s father again. It was difficult not to notice how he had a few inches on Simon, that his close-fitting suit didn’t show a malnourished body underneath, now absolutely well-tailored and well-made it was, and even if Hunson seemed more interested in gauging Marceline’s reaction than Simon’s shame, Simon was burning up from exposing himself. For hurting Marceline.  
  
“I’m so sorry,” he managed, nodding his head to Marceline’s father before running to Marceline and kneeling by her side. “Marceline?”  
  
She was bawling. Simon pulled her into his arms, and she clung to his shoulders. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have yelled. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry - “  
  
“Simoooon, stop apologizing!” She put her hand over his mouth.  
  
“But - “  
  
“Now you’re crying even worse!” Marceline rubbed her eyes with the hand not on Simon, then patted his face with both hands. “Stop crying. Marceline says stop. Don’t be sad.”  
  
Simon groaned; that just made him feel worse. “I’m sorry, I don’t think I can stop.”  
  
Footsteps. Something reached down and dragged them up by the collars. Simon shrieked and scrambled for cover before realizing it was only Hunson and relaxing; Marceline smacked her father in the nose. Hunson oofed and dropped her back into Simon’s arms.  
  
“I think you’ll both feel better if you eat something,” Hunson said, rubbing his nose. “Ow.” Grin. “That’s my girl.”  
  
Marceline chuckled happily and pointed out the door. “To the food! Go, Simon!”  
  
“Yes, Mistress,” Simon deadpanned, and he trotted out the door. Hunson followed and lead them down the stairs. It had been a long time since Simon had dared to go barefoot, and the wood floor was warm and smooth and new beneath his feet. Hunson’s feet barely touched the wood; occasionally his legs angled to inhuman twists that made Simon wince and Marceline giggle.  
  
There were no creatures in the small kitchen. Simon relaxed; it was harder to eat with them yelling at him. He dropped Marceline onto a chair, then followed Hunson to the refrigerator.  
  
“Demons get sustenance from more than one place, so I don’t have a lot of human food in here,” Hunson said.  
  
“Ёб твою мать,” said Simon.  
  
“I’ll have more tomorrow, though - “  
  
Simon ducked under Hunson’s arm and grabbed both peaches in the fridge, stuffing one into his mouth before tossing the to Marceline. She caught it and took a huge bite. Simon grabbed his before his teeth completely severed the sweet peachflesh and chewed and swallowed quickly, in case the peach rotted away in his hands.  
  
He’d devoured two-thirds of the peach when he heard glass clinking. He looked up and saw Hunson putting out a plate with a hunk of cheese on it, soft bread, meat that was in a package and not clumsily hacked off a corpse, eye-searing mustard, lettuce that was actually fresh and just limp enough to garnish a sandwich without getting in the way, actual tomatoes with pert stems over rounded bodies -  
  
Simon bit off a sob with his next hunk of peach. “Ёб твою мать.” He had forgotten how sharp hunger burned when he wanted to eat.  
  
“Is it good?” Hunson said. Simon nodded around the peach, juice and tears dripping down his face. Hunson smiled, his nervousness twitching the edges of his eyes, but Simon barely noticed because he had stuffed the rest of the peach, minus pit, into his mouth so he could grab a knife and make himself a sandwich.  
  
First the bread, soft and pale as a pillow and sweeter-smelling. Marceline was poking the package of meat. “What is this?” Simon snatched it wordlessly, sliced it open with one claw and put three slices of roast beef on the bread, then ripped open the cheese and took off a long chunk with a shuddering thunk of the knife, then tenderly applied the lettuce, then cut the tomatoes into thin slices and lay them on and then mustard on the bread and shoved on top and. A sandwich.  
  
He had a good third of it in his mouth when he realized both Marceline and Hunson were staring at him. He slowly put the sandwich down and finished chewing, licked a swirl of mustard off his lip. “What?”  
  
“What are you eating?” asked Marceline.  
  
“I’ve never seen anyone eat a sandwich like that before,” said Hunson, awestruck.  
  
Simon blushed. “Thank you.” He crossed his ankles under the table and rubbed his neck before turning to Marceline and showing her his plate of sandwich. “This is a sandwich. It’s made of many different foods put together to make a delicious food that is better than all the parts combined.”  
  
Marceline picked up the opened meat container and waved it at him. “Yeah, you need to explain what all these foods are. I don’t know them. Why is the meat in a box? Meat comes from animals, not boxes! What are those fat red things? And the pink thing I ate earlier And that papery green stuff! What’s that soft stuff that looks like Twinkie flesh on the sandwich ends? And what’s that yellow blood?”  
  
Simon peeled back the top of the sandwich and went through the pieces of the sandwich. “The meat was from an animal, it was just put in a box to keep it fresh; the fat red things are tomatoes,  the pink thing was a peach, the green paper is a lettuce leaf and they’re all fruits and vegetables that grow in certain circumstances but go bad quickly, which is why you’ve never seen them; that stuff on the ends is bread and it’s a thousand times better than Twinkies because it tastes like things that aren’t sugar and petrification; the yellow is mustard and it’s not blood, it’s a condiment made of,” and he checked the back of the mustard bottle, “things I can’t pronounce but they’re all delicious.”  
  
Marceline stared at the sandwich. “Simon, I want to try it.”  
  
“Take it.” Simon pushed the plate in front of her. “I’ll make some more.”  
  
“I’ll help,” said Hunson. “I like sandwiches, and it’ll go twice as fast with two of us. I have more sandwich food in the food and pantry.” He smiled at Simon, who smiled back as Marceline ravaged the sandwich.  
  
Simon started slicing tomatoes while Hunson sliced cheese, and they took turns putting pieces on the sandwiches until they had six lying around. Simon licked mustard and tomato bits off his fingers and raked his eyes over the helpless sandwiches, just waiting for him to sink his teeth into their bodies. He pushed the plates around so that there were two for each person at the table, then loomed over his sandwiches.  
  
“Let’s eat.”  
  
Marceline whooped; Hunson already had a sandwich in his mouth. Simon listened to the screams of mercy from his sandwiches, then grabbed one and took off it’s head in one satisfying bite.  
  
They ate and ate and ate. Hunson got out pickles and cookies and chips and grapes and Simon and Marceline devoured them all. Plates stacked higher and higher until Marceline flopped over in her chair, hands on her belly, and groaned.  
  
“Simooooon, I feel weird.”  
  
“Yeah?” Simon crunched an almond and peered over at her.  
  
“I don’t want to eat anymore. What’s this feeling?”  
  
“That’s called being full.” Simon smiled hazily. He knew he looked like a disaster, but he was unable to care on account of being so full and warm.  
  
“It’s weird. I like it.” Marceline looked between him and Hunson, who had stayed mostly silent save for ‘want more?’ and suggestions about mustard. “What do we do now?”  
  
Hunson stood up, regret shading his face. “I actually have to go. I can’t leave my job for very long right now. There’s several worlds going through magical flux and the dead dimensions need more workers, so demand for demons is at an all-time high, so I have to make sure we’re producing and training the right kinds.”  
  
“I thought this was Hell,” Simon said.  
  
Hunson shook his head. “No, no, no, that doesn’t exist. The dead worlds are way more complicated, and the Nightosphere doesn’t deal with souls except as a way to strengthen certain high-ranking demons.”  
  
Marceline poked Simon. “Since when is Hell a place? I thought it was a bad word because you say it when you get mad, like der- “  
  
Simon clapped a hand over Marceline’s mouth and tittered nervously. “Thank you for that explanation and we can talk more later!”  
  
Hunson tilted his head, shrugged, stood up from the table. “Just leave the plates around, my demon minions will clean it up. The house is yours to play around in. Go ahead and do whatever.” He waltzed out of the kitchen.  
  
Marceline licked Simon’s palm. “Shtop being weird, Shimon.”  
  
He took his hand off her mouth and rubbed her saliva off on his bathrobe. “Don’t say bad words in front of your father.”  
  
“You said hell three times! You’re rude!”  
  
“You’ve got me. I’m the rudest rudenik to ever live.” He slumped dramatically in his seat. “Spare this poor Simon your judgement, my queen!”  
  
“Only if you play with me.”  She hopped onto his lap. “We haven’t played in forever and ever. You’ve been all droopy since you got back.” She ran her hands through his beard, nails tracing his jaw. “You look weird with your hair all short. I want to cut it next time.”  
  
Simon flushed. He’d almost forgotten how he’d chopped his hair off; he’d spent all of waking without the weight of hair tugging on him, and he'd been so overwhelmed with hunger that his self-conciousness had vanished, only to return now. “Does it look alright? I didn’t cut it very well.”  
  
“It’s pretty. You look pretty.” Marceline smiled. “Let’s go to my room and I’ll comb it and make it prettier.” She reached back and parted what remained of his hair into two parts. “And I found some of Mom’s nail polish. You’re going to be so pretty.”

He saluted. "Lead the way."  
  
“I will!” She hopped off his knees and stumbled away, toward the living room and the stairs. “Let’s go, Simon!”  
  
He stood and waddled after her. “Wait for me!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ёб твою мать - gosh, oh my god, really?! - literally, "fuck your mother"


	4. Chapter 4

Marceline snored on his shoulder. Simon carried her from the couch to the bed. He gestured to cast a wind spell and stared for a long moment as wind failed to manifest from his fingers and flip the blankets back.  
  
No crown. Right.  
  
He tucked her into bed and tucked the covers under her chin, then put the comforter over her head for good measure. The spirits were playing games with him right now, hiding so that he would let down his guard, but Simon was onto them. And he couldn’t let them ogle his Marceline, could he? No. Never.  
  
The crown would help. He’d be able to locate their little hideout and then avoid it. He had hidden it so well. No one would steal it. She would kill anyone who tried to steal her. The crown was a powerful artifact, even if Simon didn’t understand her.  
  
But first, clean up. Throw away the tissues and nail clippings and runaway hair, cap the nail polish and put it away, sort out the lipstick and put that away, hang up the dresses Marceline had asked him to model, and the hats, and the stockings, put the hairbrush back. The magenta nail polish had dried some time ago and he’d washed his hands three times to get the food off, so Simon didn’t have to be careful about staining anything.  
  
He checked on Marceline once more. She was drooling on her pillow under the comforter. Simon put the comforter back and crawled onto the bed at her feet. He’d stay with her tonight, in case the monsters came back.  
  
But he had to get the crown.  
  
But he couldn’t just leave Marceline.  
  
But he needed the crown. There was a gap in his head. It would help protect her.  
  
But she’d be alone again.  
  
Simon dug his nails into his scalp. He had to think. He had to make a decision. Crown or Marceline. Marceline or crown. Crown and Marceline? Could he leave her alone again? What if the bed came alive and ate her? What if her father snuck in and ate her because she had been prophesied to take his throne?  
  
No, no, he could deal with this. He’d make a Marceline decoy, then he would get the crown, then he would come back. It was a plan. It was a good plan.  
  
First, he had to get a rock. A Marceline-shaped rock. Then he needed Marceline’s clothes. But he didn’t have her clothes. He didn’t know where Marceline had gotten new clothing. Simon was back in the bathrobe. How would he find Marceline’s clothing when he couldn’t even dress himself properly? He was so exposed. Everything could see him. And if he couldn’t get clothing, he couldn’t make the decoy, so he couldn’t leave Marceline, so he couldn’t get the crown, so he couldn’t protect Marceline.  
  
He dragged his nails down his face, then over his arms, then back to his face. He had to focus. He should. Just get the crown. The crown knew what to do.  
  
Simon rolled to the edge of the bed, misjudged and fell off. He bit back an ‘ow’ and shoved his glasses back onto his face. Marceline would be safe for a few minutes while he got the crown. He needed it. She could live. She’d managed while he found ritual candles, hadn’t she?  
  
To the hallway. The carpet was soft between his toes. The wood was warm. The spirits were still making themselves scarce. Simon tightened the belt of his bathrobe anyway. They liked looking.  
  
He found his way to his room. It was colder than the other rooms. He got on his knees and crawled under the bed, then pulled the boxes out.  
  
One box. Undo the latch. Lift the second box out.  
  
Two box. Unlock the lock. The metal burned cold on his hands. Frost ringed it.  
  
He took her out.  
  
Gems winked at him. Simon pressed the cold metal against his face. “I’m sorry I got mad at you,” he said. “That wasn’t fair.”  
  
The crown remained coyly silent, but her icy fingers stroked his face. Simon kissed her. He ran his tongue over her cold skin, sucking at the hardened nub of her highest point. The sharp edge of her point split his lip. He bit down, dragged his teeth, trying to draw some pleased cry from her, but her pleasure remained quiet. He wanted to hear her voice as he touched her while he retained his clarity.  
  
“Am I interrupting something?”

Hunson stared at him from the door. Simon shrieked and clutched the crown to his chest. He tried to say something, but his tongue shriveled. He scrambled to his feet and backed up, holding the crown to his chest.  
  
Why was he here?  
  
“Um, hi.”  
  
He wanted the crown.  
  
“I wanted to talk to you.”  
  
He was going to take the crown and then he would take Simon and he was looking at him like he could see through the bathrobe and it wouldn’t happen if he wore the crown, put it on, sunk the metal bands around his temples.  
  
“Is this a bad ti - woah!” Hunson jumped over a flung ice spike. Good shot, the crown crowed; aim higher this time! Her icy arms were wrapped around Simon’s shoulders, her frosty breath against his ear, and she laughed so hard that his chest hurt from it.  
  
Hunson ran out the door. Simon followed him, stepped, grasped the water from the air and turned it into a spear. He lunged; Hunson’s spine unjointed to let him limbo under it. Simon snarled and lunged again. Hunson jerked forward and slammed him into the wall. Simon flailed with his spear before dropping it and shoving his hands against Hunson, gathering the water in the air to pierce his chest.  
  
Hunson’s body warped again, his ribs jerking away while his arms stayed still. Simon winced with sympathetic pain, then turned his ice into knives and spun for Hunson’s neck. Hunson ducked and ran around him. Simon could hear screaming, distantly, but it mattered not.  
  
He grasped for the ice inside Hunson’s body, the water flowing inside his veins, and Hunson grabbed him from behind, one arm around Simon’s arms and the other on his face, moving up. Some hard thing burned against the top of Simon’s shoulder, too hot, it would burn him out if he didn’t act.  
  
Simon summoned his spear. Pierce him -  
  
Clatter.  
  
Hunson knocked the crown off.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
There was an arm around him. And something cold digging against his back. Simon unlooped the arm from him. It was limp. He turned around in the grip.  
  
Marceline’s father slumped limply against Simon. The ice spear had gone in through his lower back and out his chest; a thick black ichor dripped out and onto Simon’s chest.  
  
Nausea surged. Simon shoved the corpse off. He backed away. There was thick black liquid all over him, on his hands, his nails were red and bloody, he’d killed someone again and he couldn’t do anything without killing people and what would Marceline do when she woke up and her father was dead and he was dead and. He hit the wall and sank to his knees. He vomited snow. Tears surged down his cheeks.  
  
He heard laughter. Simon looked up and shrieked.  
  
Marceline’s father was standing and had heaved the spear out of his body, and was peering at it. “This is really nice construction.” He looked down at Simon. “What? Did you really think that would kill me? I didn’t realize you’d fall for the old play dead trick!”  
  
Simon squeaked.  
  
Hunson’s smile became an ‘O’. “You’re really freaked out by this.”  
  
Simon nodded.  
  
“Weird! Most people would be happy I was dead.” Hunson walked over and picked Simon up, heaving him over his shoulder before Simon could muster a coherent reaction. “Come on, let’s talk about this over coffee! Beatrice left some before she went back to Earth, and I think it’s still good.”  
  
He took a few steps, hooked the crown on his foot and kicked it up. Simon caught it on the downward arc. “That knife stuff was really cool! Was that all your little metal hat’s idea?”  
  
“Metal hat?”  
  
“Yeah! The metal hat with the rubies in it.” Hunson hopped down the stairs. Simon hooked the crown around his arm and held tightly to Hunson’s jacket. The small hole where the spear had gone through Hunson revealed unblemished blue scales.  
  
“It’s called a crown. It’s not just a hat,” Simon said. He pushed himself up against Hunson’s back. “It’s worn by royalty and kings and princesses.”  
  
“Are you royalty?”  
  
“Y- no! I’m an antiquarian.” Hunson set Simon down on the table and wandered to the counter, where he pulled a huge, elaborate coffeemaker from one of the cabinets. “Former antiquarian because - Ёб твою мать.”  
  
Simon’s eyes went huge. He hadn’t had coffee in years. He hopped off the table and went to Hunson’s side.  
  
“I should know how this thing works. It’s only been a few years since she showed me,” Hunson growled.  
  
Simon ducked under Hunson’s arm and flipped open the top of the coffee maker. “If you can get the coffee beans and the filter, I’ll get water for this.”  
  
Hunson considered this, then shrugged. “Ok. Just don’t use that hat for it.”  
  
“I’m not going to use - it’s not a hat!”  
  
Hunson laughed.  
  
~*~*~  
  
After a lot of confusion about measuring cups and coffee filters, and a little fiddling around with Hunson’s demon hands, they had coffee. Simon perched on one chair, huddled around his hot cup, and Hunson sprawled from another, his knees cracked in strange directions as he slurped coffee.  
  
“I’ve never seen anyone scare a machine into working faster before.”  
  
“It’s not that difficult.” Hunson stuck his snakey tongue out at Simon. “I am probably the most terrifying thing your mortal mind has ever seen.”  
  
“You weren’t there when Marceline’s baby teeth started falling out.” Simon’s fangs clinked against the mug as he took a long sip. “I want to see you stay calm when the world is ending and there’s a six year old with teeth falling out of her skull and you can’t find anything soft for her to eat.”  
  
“That’s fair.” Hunson hopped his chair so that he leaned over the chair back and toward Simon. “That’s actually part of why I wanted to talk to you.”  
  
“Oh?”  
  
“Yes.” Hunson fiddled with the cup; Simon watched his fingers, then his wavering mouth. “I wanted to thank you for taking care of Marceline and bringing her to me. I didn’t even know I had a daughter, much less," and he smeared his hand up his face, “much less found a way to get her out of there and take care of her.”  
  
“Oh.” Simon reached over and touched the hand still flopped over the seatback. “It’s not your fault.”  
  
“She’s so wonderful!” Hunson jerked up to look at Simon, his mouth splitting a little in his excitement. “I’ve never had a child before and she punched a demon lord in the nose! And did you see her taking control earlier - of course you did, you were there, you’ve been with her all this time!” He put the coffee cup down and flailed, his wrists and elbows unjointing; his warm hand brushed against Simon’s.  
  
Simon flushed. “It wasn’t that big a deal.”  
  
“It was a very big deal!” Hunson leaned on his chair so that their foreheads almost touched. Simon’s flush grew. “Especially since something happened to Earth so that it ended and the worries about an anti - anti -“  
  
“Antichrist?”  
  
“Yes, that’s it.” Hunson shrugged. “Not sure what it means but people don’t like it.”  
  
“They’re supposed to end the world.” Simon chuckled. “Not that it matters, since it ended on it’s own.”  
  
“What happened on Earth?”  
  
Simon looked at Hunson’s square, inquisitive face and swallowed. He stood. “Do you mind if we move to the couch?”  
  
“Sure.”  
  
Simon grabbed the crown and his coffee, then went to the fridge and took out a cluster of grapes. He went to the living room and sat on the huge black couch, sinking into the cushions. Hunson sat next to him.  
  
“Thank you,” Simon said. He stared into his coffee cup; his long-nosed reflection stared back. With the couch surrounding him, and Hunson radiating heat, he felt more comfortable than in the kitchen. “Do I start with the politics or the action?”  
  
“Start with the action,” said Hunson. “I don’t know Earth things. There’s too many worlds for me to keep track of one.”  
  
“The one your wife was on?”  
  
“We weren’t married and she’s not the first human who’s summoned me for weird reasons. Probably not the last either.” Hunson stared at Simon. “Why am I the one talking when you’re supposed to be the one talking?”  
  
“Oh! Sorry” Simon said, and he lowered his eyes. “There were a lot of bad things going on before, but things got serious when the bombings started going on daily. They started using banned weapons, like spreading smallpox and using nukes.  
  
“The major powers on Earth were fighting. There were strange occurrences going on around the world which made the tensions worse; with hindsight, I’d say that they were caused by things like this.” He held up the crown. “Magic.”  
  
“Which would explain why Beatrice didn’t contact me,” said Hunson. “Changes in magic can be caused by outside powers influencing a world, and that can prevent intra-world communication.”  
  
“I guess,” said Simon. He pressed a grape to the crown, but she wasn’t interested. He huffed and ate it instead. “The bombs eventually became powerful enough that most of the humans were Marceline and I were died. I suspect - no, I know that the only reason we lived was because of our supernatural existence.”  
  
“So it was just you two in a dead world?”  
  
“No. I'm pretty sure there are other continents still standing, and there were others on ours. They were just hard to find.” Simon leaned against Hunson. “They didn't like us, so it was good.”  
  
“Didn’t like you?” Hunson nudged Simon, but Simon didn't budge.  
  
“Do you think a couple of healthy, bright blue people running around and being strong enough to fight things would be popular? Especially with Marceline not having a filter and me looking like an escapee from a Rankin-Bass film. Look at me!” He pointed at himself. “My nose is a foot long, I can bite people’s fingers off and if I put my mind to it, I can, I - “ He took a grape and squished it. “Do that to heads.”  
  
“Wouldn’t that be useful?”  
  
“No!” Simon threw his hands up. “People thought we would eat them!”  
  
Hunson snorted into a laugh. “Did you?”  
  
“I never ate someone who had talked back to me!”. He ate the remains of the grape and licked the juice off his hand. “I have some standards.”  
  
“Did Marceline?”  
  
“No, no, no! I wouldn’t let her eat a person! That’s not hygienic and it’s gross.” Simon stuck out his tongue. “I am not doing that again unless it’s life or death. I’m pretty sure the only reason I don’t have mad cow is because I’m magic.”  
  
Hunson grinned. “What kind of disease is that?”  
  
“You get it when you eat brains.” Simon sighed. “I should be upset about that, but I think you fake dying on me got me tired me out enough that I don’t have the energy to care. I’ve hit some peak of self-loathing and exhaustion and now I’m teetering on top before I veer into another awful decision.”  
  
“I like this better than last time,” said Hunson. “It’s hard to get you to talk when you’re screaming and throwing up ice. That’s not normal for humans, is it?”  
  
“No. No, it’s not.”  
  
“Thought so.” Simon rested his head on Hunson’s shoulder. Hunson scooted away, and Simon’s head fell onto his lap. “Humans are really physical like this, right?”  
  
“Right.” Simon smiled. Hunson was really warm.  
  
“I’m not used to that. Demons don’t touch a lot.” He shook his leg. “We’re too dangerous and ambitious to trust each other.”  
  
“So, you letting me do this means,” and Simon yawned, “you like me a lot.”  
  
“Well, even if your metal hat doesn’t like me, you saved Marceline and you like sandwiches and your fighting is really interesting, and you can’t kill me. I’m going to keep you around.”  
  
Simon nodded. “The crown shouldn’t do that anymore.” He yawned again and closed his eyes. “You can just stop me if I do. I don’t mind.”  
  
“Are you deathless - hey! Don’t fall asleep on me!” Hunson pushed Simon off his knee and onto the carpet. “Do that in the bedroom!”  
  
“Yours?” Simon grinned sleepily, spread his legs.  
  
Hunson sighed and dragged him to his feet. “If that’ll help. Come on. We’ll continue when you’re not doing weird human things.”  
  
“I can do weird human things all night - hahaha!” Simon laughed as Hunson picked him up and carried him up the stairs. “Weird, weird, human things. One night in Moscow and the world’s your oyster!”  
  
“I don’t think humans are supposed to go through this many moods in this short a time. It’s not healthy.” Hunson opened a door and dumped Simon on Marceline’s bed. “She was calling for you when she woke up. I’m going to be busy, so you take care of her.”  
  
“Okay.” Simon pushed the crown up to his shoulder and cuddled up next to the lump of Marceline under the covers. He took a moment to find words, then sat up and called after Hunson: “Спокойной ночи!”  
  
Hunson stopped at the threshold, then turned back to Simon. His expression was one that Simon didn’t know to read.  
  
He left quickly.  
  
Simon covered his smile and flopped back on the bed next to Marceline. “Your dad is nice,” he told her.  
  
She didn’t reply on account of being asleep. Simon giggled and took the crown off his arm, set her on his chest. “He’s not that bad, is he?”  
  
The crown was mute in shame. Simon kissed her. “We won’t do that again. He’s nice. And we can’t kill him.” She nodded.  
  
“I think he likes me,” Simon said. The crown gave him a look, and Simon flushed. “I can’t help how he feels!” Pause. “Fine, I’ll go to bed if you stop looking at me like that.”  
  
Simon crawled under the covers, tucked them over the crown, and faded into sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Goodnight."


	5. Chapter 5

**Day 1:**  
  
“Wake up!”  
  
“Five more minutes.”  
  
“You need to wake up right now!”  
  
“Nooo.”  
  
Marceline rolled Simon off the bed. “You wake up!”  
  
Simon groaned and batted at Marceline from the floor. “You didn’t have to cut me off.”  
  
“I didn’t cut you off. I rolled you off. You show a fear-somm in-ex-ac-ness of words. You’re a vicious delin-kant - “  
  
“Marceline, don’t quote myself at me. I feel bad enough as is.” Simon sat up and cracked his back. “Especially when I wasn’t talking to myself at the time.”  
  
“I like it when you insult people!” Marceline rolled off the bed and landed on Simon’s lap. “Especially when you do  мат. You still have to teach me мат. We have lots of time now!” She tugged the ends of his smile up. “‘Yes, Marceline, I will teach you how to swear right now because it’s a very important skill.’”  
  
“Why can’t you be interested in Russia’s literary traditions?” He picked her up and stood.  
  
“Because you keep on having to burn our books!” She smacked her palm against his face. “We only got halfway through Crime and Punishment before that gang stole it.”  
  
“I bet we can find some in here.” He twirled her around. “If not, I’ll write you something. I can teach you how to read cyrillic.”  
  
“Then I can read when you write stuff on your body!”  
  
Simon opened his mouth. He closed it. “I guess you will,” he said, and made a note to himself that he should switch languages for his notes to himself.  
  
“Hey! I see something!” Marceline smacked Simon’s shoulders and he let her down. She ran over to the door and picked up the pile, then brought it back to Simon. “Clothes, Simon!”  
  
He picked up one of them, and it took a moment of unfolding before he recognized a black collared shirt. Then, a red vest. Red dress pants. Fluffy black socks. New undergarments; he blushed.  
  
Marceline was already pulling off her shirt. Simon did a sweep of the room for spirit monsters, then dropped his bathrobe and started changing.  
  
He was halfway through wiggling into the undershirt when he noticed Marceline staring. “What?”  
  
“I can count your ribs.”  
  
Simon pulled the shirt down. “Don’t stare at me when I’m getting dressed. It’s rude.”  
  
Marceline stuck her tongue out. “I’ve seen you naked all the time!”  
  
“That doesn’t matter! Don’t look at me.”  
  
“You’re weird, Simon.” She hopped into a sock.  
  
Simon bit the top button off the collared shirt and used the string to tie the crown to his belt. Once he was dressed, Marceline lead them to the mirror.   
  
It had been years since he’d been in such nice clothes. They were a little too large, but they hid how ugly his body had become. He would dare to use the adjective dapper. Red and black on blue looked good. And he hadn’t screwed up cutting his hair too badly; it was already growing long enough to even out. Even his nose wasn’t as much of a disaster as usually was.  
  
“We look good,” Marceline said.  
  
“That we do,” Simon said. “I think today should be another spa day so we can look extra-good when your father gets here.”  
  
“I’ll get the comb!” She ran off, opened the closet door and squealed. “Simon, there’s a bunch more clothes in here! We’re going to look pretty all week!”  
  
Simon smiled at her reflection.  
  
 **Day 2** :  
  
“I think I’ve fallen in love with your mother.”  
  
Simon ran his fingers over the spines of books. Crime and Punishment towered over the lounging Chronicles of Narnia, the Tale of Genji whispered to Pride and Prejudice through a full Encyclopedia Britannica, a Bible and Quran huddled next to each other, a Player’s Handbook and Dungeon Master’s Guide and six Monster Manuals just screamed for him to touch them and - her library spanned the walls of the room. He hadn’t seen this many books in years. He could smell them, no, he could practically taste them now.  
  
Marceline was stacking books. Simon made his own stacks. They both settled on the couch, Marceline leaning against Simon’s arm, and started to read.  
  
 **Day 3** :  
  
“What’s this word mean?”  
  
“Plum. It’s a purple-skinned fruit with pale orange flesh.”  
  
“What’s this one?”  
  
“A tart is a pastry - “  
  
“What’s a pastry?”  
  
“Maybe letting you read Redwall was a bad idea. I'm hungry now.” Simon stood up. “I’m going to see if the kitchen has pots and pans, and then I’m going to make food so you know what it’s like!”  
  
“Woah.” Marceline hopped after him. “I want to help! I’ll decapitate the tomatoes!”  
  
Simon grinned. “Race you to the kitchen!” He started running; Marceline hopped off the stairs and flew past him.  
  
 **Day 4:**  
  
The dirty pots were gone. So were the dishes. But the many leftovers were still in the refrigerator, and he felt the tension drain from his back. He pulled out the pot of stew and made up a bowl, put it on the stove to boil and get the germs out, then sat at the table and opened one of his notebooks.  
  
 _Hello, Simon. This is Simon. I’m writing this because my memory is worse and I don’t want to forget what’s going on._  
  
“Simon,” he said, and then said it again: “Siiiimon.” It did sound familiar. That must be his name.  
  
 _This is Marceline._ There was a picture of her there; he knew her, had woken up with her drooling on his vest and had made sure she was asleep before creeping to the kitchen, there was no way he could forget her, but he read the rest of her entry anyway. _She’s the daughter of a demon and I love her as if she were my own daughter. She’s a good kid, although I need to practice disciplining her better. Note: she’ll obey anything if you say ‘Simon says’ first, but save this for emergencies or she’ll start to ignore it._  
  
 _This is Hunson Abadeer_. Another familiar picture. _He is Marceline’s father and lord of the Nightosphere, which is where we are now. The Nightosphere is like Hell College and Hunson is the evil dean. Do not call him a smurf. I think he likes me. Note: ask him about if he’s licked anyone through the showerhead before._  
  
Unfamiliar pictures now. _This is Mom and me and my brother. Mom died before the world ended while sleeping. I don’t know where my brother is. I don’t remember his name. I didn’t write it down before I forgot it. I hope he’s safe. I don't remember what happened to Father. I have no pictures._  
  
He tapped what he thought was his face. His hair was brown; his skin was the same dark color as the table. Not blue. Not transparent like ice. Was that really him? The other two in the photo looked like him. They looked happy. It must have been taken before he turned blue.  
  
The handwriting began to grow sloppy around a space without a picture. _This is Betty, my princess. I have to find her. The crown is my princess. Don’t believe the crown; the cake is a lie. Betty is the princess. Don’t believe the crown. Betty is the crown. Crown betty crown crown ice betty crown betty betty crown_ and so on until it degraded to squiggles. Parts of the page were crinkled where water had fallen and dried.  
  
He closed the book and pushed it away. Maybe it was a good thing he had forgotten some of that stuff.  
  
“Simon, are you making food? Something smells good.”  
  
He turned to Marceline, who had wandered into the kitchen, and smiled. “Yes, I was warming up what we made yesterday.”  
  
“Good.” She crawled onto his lap. “You were crying again.” She patted his face; her hand came back wet. “Are you ok?”  
  
He considered lying, then shook his head. “Sometimes people cry when they’re happy. I’m so happy to be here,” he said, and something hardened in his chest. It was true. He was so happy to be here. Even if his brain was a sieve, he wanted to be here.  
  
Marceline hugged him. He hugged her back as tight as he dared.  
  
 **Day 5:**  
  
There was a pile of bananas in front of his door.  
  
He looked to the left. He looked to the right. No one was watching.  
  
He took the bananas. They would be good in case they ran out of food. Bananas were soft and died easily but he hadn’t had one in years and they were delicious. And he could eat one or two if he got hungry. Marceline was reading and he was staying in his room until the crazy got better. And food was good.

 **Day 6:**  
  
 _My name is Simon. My name is Simon. My name is Simon._  
  
He wrote it in every language he knew, covering the notebook page. He knew this worked; there were pages before that were covered in Simons. This was normal. Sometimes he had to write Marceline over and over again, or reassure himself that his body was supposed to be like that. The memories would come back eventually; when they didn’t, he simply made new ones.  
  
He didn’t remember the first time he met Marceline.  
  
He didn’t remember his mother’s name.  
  
He didn’t remember the story he told his brother when their mother drove them to Russia.  
  
But he remembered hiding with Marceline in a car when acid rain started burning through their protective shawls, and she told him about her mother bandaging her knees, and he told her stories until she fell asleep.  
  
 _My name is Simon. My name is Simon._

He didn’t remember giving Marceline Hambo. It was her favorite story, though, so he’d long ago written out his version of it so he could use that if she asked for a story.  
  
He didn’t remember proposing; he just remembered the song playing during it. He could do the chords blindfolded if he had a guitar. He couldn’t remember her face when he proposed, but he remembered that she smelled like lemons and tasted like chocolate strawberries when they kissed. She was an inch taller than him and her hands were bony and he couldn’t remember what color her eyes were under the glasses.  
  
 _My name is Simon._  
  
He did remember the first time he lost his teeth. They were wobbly already. He was running out of food in his apartment; he was too scared to leave the house as he grew colder after each dizzy spell and his hair grew and grew and grew.  
  
He woke up tasting blood. When he staggered to the bathroom sink, he spat out blood and his front teeth. In the mirror, his chin and grey stubble were stained red, and tiny nubs of fangs peeked out from his gums.  
  
 _My name is Ismon. My name is Icemon._  
  
He growled and scratched the last two out. _Simon, Simon, Simon, I am Simon!_  
  
The pencil lead snapped. He screamed and threw it against the wall, then buried his face in his hands. He was still getting used to ‘Simon’ again. Simon, Simon, why would he forget his own name?  
  
He looked at the crown perched on his desk end.  
  
“I know you did this,” he said. “Why are you doing this?”  
  
It said nothing. He slammed his hands against the table. “Tell me! Why do you keep on doing this to me?!”  
  
The crown remained silent.  
  
“I know you’ve said it before! I simply don't believe you.” He dragged his hand down his face. “Why would memories of my family hurt me? How it this for my own good?”  
  
Nothing.  
  
“Why not just hollow out my brain and fill it up?! I’m nothing but a puppet to you! Admit it!”  
  
It did not react. He sighed and picked it up, touched it to his face so he could hear it better. Ice spiderwebbed over his cheeks.  
  
“But what else do you want from me? I don’t understand.”  
  
It whispered. He shrieked and threw the crown away; he scrambled for his pocketknife and used it to carve a message on his arm between the marker reminders to be nice to Marceline and to check for more bananas:  
  
 _I am Simon. I am not king!_  
  
 **Day 7:**  
  
“Wake up!”  
  
Marceline tugged the covers off him. He rolled away from the light and toward the warm covers, but she grabbed his arm and rolled him back.  
  
“I don’t want to wake up. Go away.”  
  
“Simon has to wake up.” Something soft smacked his face. “Hambo misses Simon and so do I.”  
  
“нет.”  
  
“Don’t you Russian at me!”  
  
Simon groped for the covers. “Let me go back to sleep.”  
  
Marceline scowled. “No! Your sleeve is all bloody.”  
  
“Don’t - “  
  
Before he could stop her, she shoved up his sleeve. _I am Simon. I am not king!_ had scabbed over his marker instructions; Simon flinched away as Marceline flaked away dried blood.  
  
“What happened last night?”  
  
“Nothing,” Simon lied. He had nothing to pray to anymore, but he thought _don’t let her ask anything more_ to whatever was willing to listen. “It’s nothing.”  
  
Marceline stared at him, blinking fast, then shoved Hambo onto Simon’s chest. “Hambo will stay with you and make sure you’re ok! I’m going to make you breakfast.” She tucked his arms over Simon’s shoulders. “Don’t complain! You take care of me so I get to take care of you!” And with that, she hopped off the bed and ran out the door.  
  
Simon poked Hambo’s head. “You’re here to take care of me, huh?” Hambo did not respond on account of him being an inanimate object. Simon smiled; Marceline was too good a kid, taking care of him when he was being a big baby.  
  
He then turned to the crown, which he’d flung against the wall last night. It now sat near the mirror. Simon scowled. “I don’t want to hear anything from you about talking to objects after all the stunts you’ve been pulling. I’m not crazy and I don’t need your help!” The crown did not respond on account of sulking.  
  
Simon turned away from it and sat up, cradling Hambo in his arms. He gave Hambo’s head the support it needed; his neck was still weak, and he didn’t want to put him down in case he smacked a soft spot on his head. His hair still had traces of red, like his mother's had been.  
  
That was how Marceline found them.  
  
“I cut up fruit,” she said, and pushed a plate in front of him. Plums, pears and peaches. Simon dragged his teeth over his lips; how long had it been since he’d last eaten? He couldn’t remember. He’d had no energy to free the bananas from their hiding place.  
  
“Thank you,” he said, and devoured them once he'd put Hambo safely on a pillow.  
  
Marceline hopped up behind him. “I’m going to comb your hair now,” she said. “It got all messy and long again.”  
  
“It did,” Simon said, and didn’t give the crown the dignity of a glance. He didn’t know why it wanted him to have long hair, but it did. He’d taken off most of his beard last night, but he’d left his mane down to his shoulder blades so the crown wouldn’t get so upset next time. “Can you put it up in a ponytail when you’re done?”  
  
“Definitely,” Marceline said, and started combing. “When do you think Daddy will come back?”  
  
“I don’t know - ow, Marceline, don’t yank that hard - he didn’t say before he left,” Simon said.  
  
Marceline tugged the comb out, then started brushing again, slower. They wouldn’t get any knots out like this, but Simon could live with that. At least he was clean and fed and Marceline was here. That was all he needed.


	6. Chapter 6

**Day 8:**  
  
Simon knew that if he got this wrong, he’d regret it for the rest of the day. It was a decision for the ages.  
  
He plucked the card out of Marceline’s hand and flipped it around, then groaned melodramatically. “I have the Old Maid.”  
  
“Ha!” Marceline did a seated dance with her card. “You’re going to lose!”  
  
“Should I give up now, since the game is hopeless?”  
  
“No! We play forever! There’s never no hope!” Marceline waved her arms around. “Play!”  
  
Simon shuffled his cards, then fanned them out for Marceline. He nudged the Queen of Spades and the Five of Hearts up a millimeter; she’d recognize the ploy and probably avoid the Queen. He wanted her to win, after all.  
  
Marceline leaned in and hmmed. “You’re planning a trick.”  
  
“Never,” Simon said.  
  
Marceline pursed her lips, then took one of the cards between the two upraised ones and breathed a sigh of relief. “Ha! I got a ten!”  
  
“I don’t know how you got so good at this game,”  Simon said.  
  
“Lots of practice,” and Marceline laid down two tens.  
  
“Excuse me, you two,” said Hunson. Simon looked up; Hunson was in the doorframe, his smile wide as he waved at them. Marceline shrieked, hopped up and hugged him; Hunson patted her head as if he was afraid she’d explode, his smile shading nervous. “Nice to see you.”  
  
Simon stood, loosening his collar. “We were starting to get worried.”  
  
“Nah, it’s nothing. I came home as soon as I could.” Hunson waddled into the kitchen, Marceline still attached to him. Simon followed him. “I’m just so busy that I lost track of time! You know how it is.” He paused as he got to a chair, then looked at Marceline, then at the chair. “Um.”  
  
“Marceline, get off your father,” Simon said.  
  
“Kay,” said Marceline. She let him go and ran back to the living room to grab the cards.  
  
Hunson gave Simon a thankful glance before scooting a chair out and offering it to Simon. Simon took it. “What have you been doing?”  
  
“There’s been some disputes on the new laws about how short lines are allowed to be,” Hunson said, sitting across from Simon. “As the ultimate ruler of the Nightosphere, I get final word, but some of the sub-rulers are being real brats about it. One of them threatened to sneak into my house disguised as part of the cleaning crew and take a dump on the carpet.”  
  
“What?!” Simon looked around in case he’d missed seeing something, but - he didn’t see anything like that. “Is that - do you think they’d really do that? I haven’t seen anyone here except you and Marceline, so I don’t know if they’ve even shown up.”  
  
“Oh, they’re here,” Hunson said as Marceline hopped on a chair between them. “I told them to stay out of your ways. I wasn’t sure how well you’d deal with weird monsters showing up in the house. Not everyone who visits the Nightosphere is ready to look at what lives here.”  
  
Simon nodded. Marceline started shuffling the cards. “I’m not scared of monsters,” Marceline said. “Simon and I could kill them all and it’s not like they can be weirder than all the dead and mutilated stuff we saw on Earth.”  
  
“Mutated,” Simon corrected.  
  
“Right,” said Marceline. “Mutated. You wanna play cards with us, Daddy?”  
  
“Maybe later,” said Hunson. Marceline started dealing into two piles; Hunson watched her. “Since I’m here and you’ve have settled in, I wanted to see what I can give you. I won’t be here very much because running the Nightosphere is very time-consuming, so I need to know what you need so that you’re happy.”  
  
Marceline leaned forward, eyes huge. “You mean like presents?”  
  
“Yeah! Like presents! Anything you want, I’ll try and get it for you.” Hunson nodded. “Name it, Marceline.”  
  
“Uhh. Hmm.” Marceline looked at the cards, then at Simon, who did his best to look reassuring, then at Hunson. “I have a few ideas! I want fruit pie ingredients.”  
  
Hunson blinked. “What’s a pie?”  
  
“It’s a - Simon, what’s a pie? Because it’s not the charcoal lump we made a few days ago.”  
  
Simon flushed. “I can make a list of ingredients. There’s lots of fresh food here, and that’s great, but I want to give Marceline a more varied diet than sandwiches and fruit.” He stood. “I’m going to get some coffee.”  
  
“Right, right.” Hunson gave Simon a perfunctory nod before looking back to Marceline. “What else?”  
  
“I want to learn magic.” She spread her arms. “Lots of magic!”  
  
Hunson brightened. “That, I can do. I’ll teach you all the magic that I know.”  
  
“Yay!”  
  
Simon fumbled through the cabinets and pulled out a coffee mug, listening to them. Hunson wouldn’t be around much, huh? He guessed that was to be expected given that Hunson ruled the Nightosphere. Demons did things differently. Giving Marceline some say in her circumstances was good; it was a nice change from the apocalypse.  
  
Were there schools in the Nightosphere? He wasn’t sure he could cover all her education, but this was a school for, uh, whatever it was that demons did. He could talk to her about that later.  
  
He poured his coffee and sipped it.  
  
“Next, uhh. Simon told me that I should ask you this sometime, so what’s a virginity?”  
  
Simon barely managed to keep from choking on his coffee -  
  
“I don’t know. Simon, what is a virginity?”  
  
\- only to spit it out. He turned around and gaped at them both, coffee dripping down his chin. “Why are you asking me? You’re - how do you not know what a virginity is? The ritual I used to call you required the blood of a virgin!”  
  
Hunson shrugged. “Just because something has power on a world doesn’t mean I know what it is. Or I know it under a different name. There’s so many weird things used for magic that it gets mixed up, you know?”  
  
Marceline bobbled on her chair. “Simon, does that mean you’re a virgin?”  
  
“Yes.” He looked at the bottom of his coffee cup. “Technically.”  
  
“Am I a virgin?”  
  
“Yes. Emphatically.”  
  
“What about Daddy?”  
  
“Not, definitely!” Simon could feel Hunson’s stare burning into him. He knew what it was, didn’t he? He had somehow clued in or, or he already knew and wanted to see or he just thought Simon’s humiliation was funny or -  
  
“You mind defining it?” Hunson asked.  
  
“Yes!” Simon slammed his coffee cup onto a counter, marched over to the table and crawled under it. “I’m not answering any more questions. Continue like I’m not here.”  
  
“Uh, ok,” said Hunson.  
  
Marceline kicked her feet under the table. Simon pulled his knees up to his chin and waited for her next request. Maybe new clothing? Or some repairs for Hambo? Maybe a friend for Hambo!  
  
“Can you make Simon be less weird? I’m worried.”  
  
Simon felt his brain go cold, his head go cold, cold down his neck and spine. His stomach overturned. He wrapped his arms around his legs.  
  
“What kind of weird?” asked Hunson.  
  
Marceline’s feet braced against the rung of the chair legs. “He couldn't get out of his room for two days, I don’t think he ate for one of them, and he cut up his arm!”  
  
“That’s,” Hunson said, choosing his words carefully, “not normal.”  
  
“He’d get mad at me if I didn’t eat or move for two days or cut myself up on purpose! It’s definitely not normal!”  
  
He couldn’t think. He couldn’t breathe.  
  
“Maybe we should talk to him about it.” Hunson’s feet shifted; his head peeked under the table. Simon scrambled back until his back hit a table chair, his heart pounding. “Simon.”  
  
Marceline hopped off her chair and knelt under the table. “Simon.”  
  
He couldn’t deal with it. Not like this. Not alone.  
  
Simon scrambled out from under the table and out of the kitchen, out of the living room and up the stairs, he couldn’t hear their footsteps but they must be right behind him and he ran into his room and the crown, he needed the crown, he grabbed it off the desk and dove into the closet. He squeezed himself into the corner and put the crown in his mouth and bit down so he wouldn’t make noise.  
  
He had to be quiet. It was dark in here. The crown was quiet. If he could be like the crown, it’d be better. He wasn’t a freak. He wasn’t sick or crazy. They wouldn’t let him stay if they found out how sick he was.  
  
He heard Marceline bounce into the room, then leave. “Simon, come out!” He didn’t answer. He gnawed on the **crown.** It was a little easier to breathe now.  
  
He heard Hunson come in. Simon huddled closer into the corner. Marceline was only eight, she wasn’t very smart yet, but Hunson was a demon. He could probably smell him. He was filthy and bad and **sick** and he couldn’t do anything **right** and it was **wrong** and he needed to make sure he could act not **crazy** so they didn’t kick him out. And he needed to put on the **crown.** The **crown** would fix it.  
  
He took **her** out of his mouth and flipped **her,** lifted **her** to his head.  
  
A great black hand zoomed in and snatched **her** out of his hands. Simon yelped and scrambled after it, tripping on his face as he got out of the closet.  
  
The hand - one of many - had sprouted out of Hunson’s mouth. He dropped the crown into his normal hands and peered at it, flipping it around; his eyes furrowed at it.  
  
Simon shoved off the carpet and lunged at Hunson; one of the hands zoomed and slammed Simon into the wall, the fingers wrapping around his arms and stomach. He sank to the ground, trying to breathe; the fingers felt so tight and he lost the **crown,** he lost **her,** what was that demon going to do with the crown, what was he going to do with him, where was Marceline?  
  
He tried to stand, but the hand pushed him onto the floor. A thought floated up through the fog of his brain and he giggled hysterically. “I’ve seen enough hentai to know where this is going.”  
  
“What are you talking about?” asked Hunson.  
  
“It’s a specialized form of anime - “  
  
“I’m not talking to you.” He held the **crown** up to his face. “I don’t understand. I can barely hear you. Do you not want to talk to me or are you just mumbling?”  
  
Simon tried to sit up; the hand tipped him onto his side, and he flailed his legs. He could barely breathe. “Don’t talk to **her** like that,” he managed, trying to get back up.  
  
Hunson flipped the crown over a couple times, then looked over at Simon. “Him?” His gaze was piercing; Simon tried to roll away so that he couldn’t look at him. When that failed, he rolled into a ball so that at least his awful ugly face couldn’t be seen and squeezed his eyes shut.  
  
He heard Hunson walk over; the hand dragged him to his feet, and Simon whined but didn’t struggle. He didn’t have the energy for it.  
  
Hunson put the **crown** on him.  
  
He **found his footing**. Simon **straightened out his posture** as well as he could with the hand holding him and **glared** up at Hunson. “ **What are you doing**?”  
  
“Testing something.” It was impressive, how he could talk with all those hand things coming out of his mouth.  
  
Simon **cracked his neck** and peered at Hunson’s mouth, the long black tentacle-hands streaming from it; they meant that **this form wasn’t his first. There was something under his man-suit. Maybe he could slice him open with his ice and get to it. Or maybe** \- well, he had been watching Simon. And he did know what happened next in hentai. **Perhaps he had misunderstood what was going on.**  
  
“ **What are you testing**?” He hopped forward; the arms were more pliable now. **He rolled his arms, testing the tentacle-hand’s grip.**  “ **Can I help**?”  
  
“A theory.” Hunson peered at Simon. Simon blushed and hopped closer; they were almost close enough to touch. “You’re doing just fine. One more thing to test.” He reached up with one of his human hands and flicked the **crown** off.  
  
And with it went Simon’s energy. He stumbled forward and landed on Hunson, quickly grabbed him so he didn’t tilt and fall off, which left Simon’s face in his lapels. Simon rubbed his face against them; they were warm and a little rough and smelled like sulfur and old books. It was a good smell.  
  
Hunson’s hand pulled him off Hunson and deposited him on the bed, zooming back into his mouth like a power cord being pulled back a very elaborate vacuum cleaner. He imagined Hunson as a vacuum cleaner, face on the floor as he made vrrm noises, and laughed. He couldn’t stop laughing. Something wet fell on his face.  
  
Hunson sat next to him, his face once again normal. “I think,” he said softly, “you need magic lessons too.”  
  
Simon nodded. He was laughing too hard to respond in speech.  
  
“Have you told Marceline about the crown?”  
  
Simon shook his head. He couldn’t. She’d get even more worried and he couldn’t let that happen because there was already so much bad stuff and he was supposed to take care of her.  
  
“Do you want me to tell her?”  
  
He shook his head again. No, no, she couldn’t know.  
  
“Should I distract her until you’ve calmed down?” Hunson sighed. “I don’t know that much about humans but I know these many mood swings in this little time is bad. I may be her father, but you’re her primary caretaker and it’s universal across worlds that you’re not supposed to let the kids see their caretaker in distress.”  
  
Simon nodded. He couldn’t let her see him like this. He couldn’t even talk properly. He had failed her. Failure.  
  
“I’ll go.” Hunson stood. “I need to learn how to parent sometime. Better today than later!” With that, he stood and marched out the door. “Hey, Marceline!”  
  
Simon laughed and laughed and laughed until he was all wrung out and then lay there. He fumbled around until he could roll onto his side and grab the crown off the floor, then brought **her** to his chest. **She** made him feel calmer. **She** was safe.  
  
He **(she)** wondered: would he ever get a wish from Hunson?


	7. Chapter 7

It took time for Simon’s head to clear. The **crown** helped some, a cold pressure on his face, but what helped most was time. Soon, his breathing was even and slow. He could think again.  
  
He found string on his bedside table and tied the crown to his belt. He figured that keeping it there, at a neutral station, would be helpful. Not away but not worn.  
  
Simon checked himself over for bruises; most of them were under his shirt, fortunately. His ponytail had fallen out with all the flailing around, so he fingercombed his hair and put it back up with a spare hairtie.  
  
So. Now he needed to get off the bed. It couldn’t be that hard, could it? He wasn’t that tired.  
  
He just had to move his legs.  
  
He could do that. It wasn’t that hard. He could just. Will his legs to start moving.  
  
Any day now.  
  
Who was he kidding? He just wanted to go back to sleep. If he was asleep, he wouldn’t feel so terrible. He’d run away from Marceline like a big ugly chicken. He still felt cold all over, and he knew from experience that the sheets wouldn’t do much to help, but they would do enough to feel nice. And they’d be heavy, too, a layer between him and the world. He’d just hide there.  
  
The door opened. Simon startled at the sound and only relaxed when Marceline hopped out of her father’s arms and onto the bed, then hugged him. “Are you ok?”  
  
“I’m fine,” he said.  
  
She pulled back, her eyes narrowing. “You said that lying is bad.”  
  
Simon shrank. “I know, I just - I don’t want you to worry. I know I’m,” and he floundered for words for a moment before circling back to Marceline’s own words, “acting really weird, and I know it’s scary, and I’m trying to fix it. I don’t want you to worry.”  
  
“I’m not scared or worried!” Marceline puffed up as if to prove Simon’s madness did not frighten her. Simon pretended to be fooled, nodding. “I’m gonna fix you.”  
  
Hunson spoke up from where he leaned against the wall. “It won’t be that easy.”  
  
“I’ll make it easy!” Marceline turned and pointed at her dad. “How do we do it?”  
  
“We should let him take a nap.” Hunson cracked his neck at unnaturally sharp angles. “When he wakes up, we’ll start magic lessons.”  
  
“Good.” Marceline turned back to Simon and kissed his nose. “Go take a nap. I’m teaching Daddy how to play cards so don’t get all worried.”  
  
“Yes, Marceline.” Simon pressed his forehead against hers. “Do what Daddy tells you, ok? He’s in charge while I’m asleep.”  
  
“Okay!” With that, Marceline zoomed out of the room. Hunson gave Simon a thumb’s up and followed, closing the door tightly behind him.  
  
Simon crawled under the covers and closed his eyes.  
  
~*~*~  
  
He woke up to the growl of a vacuum. Simon groaned; this always happened when he slept in. He wasn’t that much of a neatnik, but Betty was. “Can’t you vacuum later?” he asked; she should be able to hear him through the covers.  
  
No response. Simon pawed around for his glasses - no, wait, he’d fallen asleep with them on his face. He must’ve been pretty tired to have not bothered to take them off. He groaned and wriggled out of the covers, bracing for St. Petersburg’s chill and the toobright lights of their shared apartment, the shading of clouds and sun through the curtains on the carpet.  
  
Instead, it was muggy. No window. White walls, not peeling yellow wallpaper. Simon shoved his glasses against his face, trying to get his eyes to stop fooling him. Wasn’t he back at the apartment?  
  
“Morning. The boss wants to see you when you’re decent.”  
  
Simon turned toward the rough, Australian voice and screamed.  
  
He knew the spirits were going to come for him. And this one was not only wielding a vacuum in its spiny orange hands, but the one huge eye was fixed on him, staring, and the giant mouth was filled with teeth. The entire body was eye and mouth. The little lacy hat and apron only made the horror worse; no doubt it had snuck past the landlady disguised as a human and would now make good the wicked promises the spirits whispered to him.  
  
“Excuse me,” said the spirit, but Simon had already bolted. He slammed open the door and skidded into the hallway, his bare feet burning as they scraped on the rug, but he didn’t care. He had to get away, get out, he knew they were coming for him!  
  
Another one was in the hallway. Simon tried to run through it, but unlike all the others, it was corporeal. He tripped and fell on his nose; the creature reached toward him and he made a crawling dash for the stairs, falling down half of them before rolling onto his feet and taking the rest of them two at a time. He needed to find a place that they wouldn’t be able to find him in! They wanted the crown. The crown couldn’t do anything about them, he’d tried, it’d take too long to put her on so he had to find a place to hide and then he could put her on and where was Betty and where was Marceline?  
  
There was another one in the kitchen with a mop, so Simon ran down a hall until he found a closet. He yanked it open, ripped the sheets out of the top shelf and climbed into it, then closed the door. They’d never find him here!  
  
It was a tight fit. His nose was crushed against his face, pressing against his lips, and that was - when did his nose do that?  
  
He ran a tongue over his teeth and tasted blood from where they’d cut him.  
  
He wasn’t in St. Petersburg, was he.  
  
The door opened. Hunson and Marceline stared up at Simon. “How did you even fit in there?” Hunson asked.  
  
“Very carefully,” Simon said. “A little help? I think I’m stuck.”  
  
“Sure.” Hunson reached up and helped wedge Simon out of the shelf; finally, Simon dropped into Hunson’s arms bridal-style. He wrapped his arms around Hunson’s shoulders to keep himself steady as Marceline hopped onto the huge middle shelf.  
  
“You ok?”  
  
“There was a thing in my bedroom.” He knew it sounded stupid. No one could see them or touch them but he could touch them now. Probably. What if he’d imagined tripping on one? He was clumsy enough for it. Simon huddled closer to Hunson. “They’ve been gone for weeks but they’ve all turned up now so they must have some big scheme at work so I had to find a place they couldn’t find me.”  
  
Hunson’s eyes widened a little, an aha, before he chuckled. “No, it’s fine. I told the cleaning demons it was ok to show up when you and Marceline were around.”  
  
“Cleaning...demons.” Simon worked his mouth around the words to make sure he heard them properly before repeating himself. “Cleaning demons.”  
  
“Yes. That’s what I said,” said Hunson.  
  
“Demon maids,” Simon said, “with Australian accents and lacy aprons.”  
  
“What’s Australian?” asked Marceline.  
  
“The aprons were Marceline’s idea. She said it was ‘super cute’,” said Hunson, who managed to do quotey fingers while still holding Simon.  
  
“Did you make them while I was asleep?” Simon questioned whether he wanted to get out of Hunson’s arms, then decided he’d just stay there until Hunson told him to leave. His embrace was very comfortable.  
  
“Nah, we used some napkins to make them. Dad showed me some cutting stuff up magic to make them!” Marceline nodded firmly. “Want to learn magic with us?”  
  
“Sure.” Simon looked up at Hunson. “Lead the way.”  
  
Hunson dropped Simon; Simon squawked and landed heavily on his feet, breaking his grasp around Hunson’s shoulders. Hunson walked off, and Simon and Marceline followed him through the house and outside.  
  
The sky outside had gone a deep red like spilled wine. The ferns that surrounded the porch were a deep purple, almost black, and smelled acrid when he broke their stems. A large stretch of land had been cleared away, leaving footstep-spattered redbrown dirt. Simon recognized Marceline’s clawed footprints, and guessed the larger shoeprints belonged to  Hunson.  There were little pieces of cloth all over the ground; it must have been where Marceline had learned cutting magic.  
  
Over the horizon, beyond the cliff of their porch were black mountains uncapped by snow; instead, grey ash streaked their sides. Flaming crevices blotted the sky with smoke. A winding river of black liquid wound between soft scarlet hills. He couldn’t see demons from this high up, but he could see lights flickering and flashing on the hills.  
  
The wind was warm and humid and smelled like a barbeque. The ground was soft and sunk in between his toes. Simon stared out into the valley below, struck by the beauty of the sight.  
  
“Simon.” Marceline tugged on his hand. “Come on, stop staring. Simoooon.”  
  
“Coming,” he said, and let her drag him over to the clear part of the cliff.  
  
~*~*~  
  
“The most important thing to remember about magic is staying focused. Most magic requires at least some work from the caster; things that don’t require heavy preparation. Most magics need a little of both.”  
  
Hunson drew a picture of a stick figure concentrating and a picture of a stick figure in a summoning circle. “Summoning circles are an example of the latter. They use very specific and often rare materials in order to work, but even a person without magical knowledge could cast one with the right knowledge. And on the other hand, Simon,” and here Hunson pointed at Simon, “you have to concentrate on what you want to do with your ice in order to manipulate it, right?”  
  
“Right.” Simon flicked his finger, pulling water from the air and knitting it together to create a few snowflakes. “And it uses some of my energy.”  
  
“Exactly!” Hunson clapped his hands. “Intent is also important in many forms of magic because it shapes what happens. This is both helpful and dangerous: helpful because you know what you’re doing, but dangerous because you don’t always think it through.”  
  
Marceline frowned. “I don’t get it.”  
  
“It’s like if I tried to suck the water out of the air to make ice,” Simon said, “but I didn’t choose specifically where I got the water from and pulled it out of a fruit tree on accident, killing it.”  
  
“Oh! So you need to be really careful because you want isn’t always what happens.”  
  
Hunson nodded. “Even if you’re trying to do one thing, you can still accidentally do something else and mess up. That’s why you need to think spells through.” He sketched a sloppy snowflake on the ground. “Marceline, I started you off with that cutting spell because it was simple and demonstrated both of these principles, but wouldn’t backfire badly if something went wrong. Let me give you some more magic to practice."  
  
~*~*~  
  
As Marceline practiced the runes for making marbles float, Hunson took Simon to the center of the cleared land. “You already know some magic.”  
  
“Yes,” said Simon; he touched the crown out of habit, running his thumb over her ridges.  
  
“All self-taught?”  Hunson leaned in, curiosity scribbled all over his face; Simon blushed and dug his feet into the ground so he wouldn’t lose his nerve and step back.  
  
“Yes. Since I found the crown, I’ve had to constantly learn.” He unhooked her from his belt and held her up. “She’s my preparation, I suppose. Her expertise makes leeway for my mistakes.”  
  
“Your crown is probably legendary.” Hunson tapped one of the rubies. “You’re well on the way to being disgustingly powerful, and I can tell that you haven’t maxed out this baby’s power. She’s turning you into a real monster of a mage!”  
  
“I already knew the monster part,” Simon said, staring at his bony claws, “but not about the magic part. Using it was almost instinctual.”  
  
“That’s because of Mrs. Crown here. She probably wanted you to learn magic.” Hunson glanced over at Marceline, then leaned in and whispered to Simon: “We need to talk about that when Marceline isn’t around.”  
  
“Wha - “ Simon flushed harder with Hunson’s hot breath in his ear. He looked over at her, still fascinated with the runes, before turning back to Hunson.  “Why?”  
  
“I don’t want her exposed to what might happen. Human children are so fragile and easily traumatized, you know?” Hunson shrugged. Simon could feel his blush spreading to the pointed tips of his ears. Was he hearing what he thought he was hearing?  
  
“So you want to talk to me alone and Marceline knowing about it would traumatize her?”  
  
“Something like that. It’s special magic lessons to help you out. Maybe you can make her sleep early tonight!” Hunson leaned in again, so close that Simon could feel the heat radiating off of him. “I’ll get rid of the cleaning demons too. It’ll be just the two of us.”  
  
“Just - “  The idea of it was a little overwhelming. So soon! He hadn’t realized - well, Hunson had been so attentive to him and perhaps he should have realized. Hunson was so busy, and humans were so rare and even one who was as malformed as he was could be an exotic treat. Or maybe blue and grinching were attractive in the Nightosphere! Or - well, it didn’t matter. Simon was already smiling, heart pounding at the thought of it. “Just the two of us! I’m looking forward to it!”  
  
“Excellent.” Hunson pushed the crown to Simon’s chest. “Until then, show me what magic you do know.”  
  
Simon nodded and put the crown on. Ice flooded his nerves; **snow** filled his head, burying his worries until all that was left was the surety of his goal: to impress Hunson.  
  
He pulled on the moisture in the air and twirled it until it solidified into a sword, a 19th century style shaska with fullering slots on the side and snowflake patterns decorating the pommel and hilt. He tossed it in the air and dispersed it into snowflakes, then whirled his hand around and sucked the snow and chill together and - there was a spirit up on the roof. Perfect.  
  
“Zap!”  
  
The ice cube containing the spirit fell on the ground.  
  
Hunson gave Simon a piercing look. “You just froze the window washer.”  
  
Simon stared. Now that he gave the spirit a closer look, it had the little maid hat and lacy apron that the others wore. “Oops.”  
  
“Nah, it’s fine. Random violence is expected in the Nightosphere!” Hunson laughed and patted his back. “That’s pretty impressive for someone who’s self taught! It’s no wonder you could take such good care of my little girl.”  
  
“Thank you.” The heat of Hunson’s hand and his own flush were stark against the cold energy zipping through his nerves. Simon took a half-step closer to Hunson. “Now that I’m here, we can both take care of her.”  
  
“Right, right.” Hunson patted Simon’s back absently, and Simon took another half step towards him so they were shoulder to shoulder. “You’ll take care of the everyday stuff and I’ll do the important things.”  
  
“Yes.” Simon looked up at Hunson. “Can you show me some more magic? Give me a little,” and he pressed up against Hunson, “hands on teaching.”  
  
“Sure.” Hunson turned so that Simon’s shoulder was against his chest, then took Simon’s arms and waved them. “Show me the zap magic again. I bet if we work with your posture, you’ll be able to make even bigger ice cubes.”  
  
Simon shivered, then let Hunson move him around. “I’m all ears.”  
  
~*~*~  
  
Marceline floated rocks up and Simon zapped them down one by one, creating large ice boulders. Hunson applauded them. “Good job, both of you! You’re both making good progress!”  
  
“Yay!” Marceline whooped and sent another three rocks into the air, which Simon knocked down one-two-three. “Can we eat soon? I’m hungry.”  
  
“Of course!” Simon flipped the crown off. “I’ll go make dinner. Hunson, will you join us?”  
  
“Sure.” Marceline ran over and the three of them walked into the house together. Hunson waved his hands conversationally. “We can talk to the demon maids so you don’t freak out so badly when you see them.”  
  
“Really?” Simon grabbed one of Hunson’s hands and held onto it; Marceline grabbed the other. “You’d do that for me?”  
  
“You are my guest.” Hunson shook their hands off. Marceline frowned and Simon felt his face mirror hers as Hunson called out, “All you demons, get in here!”  
  
They all clambered in: tall and short, fat and skinny, in colors ranging from lemon yellow to rusty brown, and all wearing Marceline’s homemade maid costumes. Simon stepped behind Hunson and Marceline just in case they tried anything. Most of them were watching Hunson, but a few looked at him.  
  
“The orders of these two,” Hunson said, and he tugged Simon forward by the sleeve and indicated Marceline, all grimaces and folded arms, “are to be obeyed as swiftly and accurately as my own. I find out you’re freaking them out and you’ll get a weird punishment or pain.”  
  
One of the demons raised a hand. Hunson pointed at it. “Yes?”  
  
“Arch-novice Bolzebeer took a dump in front of the easily scared one’s room.”  
  
Hunson’s eyes narrowed. “And you didn’t mention this until now why?”  
  
“Because,” the demon said, “I’m pretty sure the scared one’s scarier than Bolzebeer.” The other demons chimed in to agree. “So do your punishment and don’t let him put us in the cold rocks!”

Simon blinked. He didn't remember finding poop in front of his room. Only bananas.  
  
“Fine. You all get out. I’m giving you leniency for not being total twits.” Hunson made a shooing gesture. “Now get out of here and don’t tell Bolzebeer I’m coming!”  
  
The demon maids scattered.  
  
Hunson smiled at Simon and Marceline. “I have to go. You two eat.” Marceline grinned and ran off; Hunson touched Simon’s arm to make sure he didn’t run after her. “Remember, when she’s asleep, magic lessons.”  
  
“Magic lessons.” Simon swallowed. “Right.”  
  
“Is there a place you’d like to have them? Since you may want to be in an area you’re comfortable in. My room has supplies - “  
  
“Your room. Definitely.” Simon nodded. “Better to be completely ready for anything that happens,right? I can be ready when you come back.”  
  
“Good man.” And with that, Hunson was gone.  
  
Simon watched him run out the door, then pulled off the crown and sank against the wall, giggling. It was like a dream. It was better than a dream; most of his dreams involved dead people, ice or waking up with an inconvenient boner. Ok, perhaps the last type of dream was relevant here, but he was pretty sure tonight wouldn’t end in furiously masturbating and hoping Marceline wouldn’t notice.  
  
A yell came from the kitchen: “A little help with the food?”  
  
“I’m coming!” Simon sprung to his feet and skipped to the kitchen. He’d make Marceline a huge meal and she’d be as happy as he was and then she’d go to bed early and then, tomorrow, they’d both wake up even happier. And possibly sore. Fingers crossed that he’d wake up sore tomorrow.


	8. Chapter 8

Simon danced around his room, journal to his chest as he laughed. He'd asked one of the spiri - no, no, they were demons and not spirits, they were delightfully solid demons who stayed out when he shut the door and obeyed his orders and he'd told one to keep an eye out for Hunson when he arrived home. Home was where the heart was, after all, and also where Simon was waiting.  
  
Marceline was asleep. He'd made sure of that. Simon had warmed up a large dinner and then ran her through magic exercises until she was thoroughly exhausted and had trundled to bed, where he sang her and the 'flu-stricken' Hambo to sleep. He doubted she'd be up for a good ten more hours. There were no clocks in the Nightosphere, nor a steady sun and moon to keep time, and his inner clock had broken years ago, but he thought he had time.  
  
Was it selfish to want this?  
  
He'd thought of nothing but Marceline for at least five years, if not longer. He'd gone without food so he could give it all to her, he'd stayed up weeks at a time to keep her safe, he'd walked until his feet bled finding ritual materials and had almost died getting his hands on them. Surely he could have one night to himself now?  
  
(Himself and Marceline's generous, thoughtful, handsome father.)  
  
His diary was full of his hopes. As minutes ticked by with no word from Hunson, Simon lay out on the bed and scribbled out ideas for the meeting. _How long has he desired me? Would he admit it at once, or would I need to coyly draw it from him? Will he slam me against the wall, overcome by my new good looks? Will his skin taste salty like a human's? What does he look like under that suit? When he kisses me, will his breath be so hot that I feel like melting?_  
  
And so on. It was a little overwhelming to think of. Hunson's invitation wasn't as brazen as Simon expected from a demon lord, but perhaps he was trying to keep it quiet. Maybe demons weren't supposed to court humans. Or he didn't want Marceline to know – she was still a bit young to learn about sex. Or – there was always Marceline's mother.  
  
 _Hunson has named Beatrice once, when we first met on Earth. He hasn't mentioned her since. Her rooms are well taken care of; no dust, all the books shelved and the clothing freshly laundered. My first instinct is to say that he still cares for her, even if he doesn't speak of her. How often do I dare speak of Betty?_  
  
 _He said that he didn't know she was pregnant. If Marceline is eight years old, he hadn't spoken Beatrice for nine years and he's kept her bedroom and library ready for her to move back in._  
  
 _Her rooms like like they've been lived in. She brought in enough books to cover an entire wall! There's enough clothing for her to live here comfortably!_  
  
 _Why did she leave the Nightosphere? Why would Hunson not be frantic about losing contact with her for nine years? And, more importantly, should I try to find out? If it were just for my own selfish reasons, I'd say no; I understand that loss better than any of the demons here. Even after six-odd years, even with my attempts to move on, my thoughts turn inexorably back to Betty. If he just wants physical comfort, as I do, I won't question him. But what about Marceline? Shouldn't she know about her parents?_  
  
No matter what the reason, it was fine. Simon didn't need love. Marceline's daughterly affections were enough for him. Hunson was the first adult company that hadn't tried to kill him in years; he was kind; he was a dutiful father, or he at least tried; hardworking; generous; and, best of all, he wanted Simon. The good looks were just a bonus.  
  
 _What does a demon want in a partner? Stamina? I'm three times as sturdy as any mortal. Or perhaps he wants to partake in the delight of human fragility, since demons can survive being frozen for several hours with no injuries other than little chill. Am I exotic? Maybe it's the nose. Maybe it's super aphrodisiac to the supernatural. Or maybe it's hair? Demons don't have hair. Maybe he wants to run his fingers through it while my head's between his legs._  
  
 _I should feel guilty about, at least, not feeling guilty about not feeling guilty about playing to the fetishes. It's been so long! I haven't kissed anyone in (hold on, looking it up) two years, since I had to perform for our supper back at that base in the mountains. I'm not looking up anything else because I know I'll regret it._  
  
 _It's the Vincent Valentine/Bruce Banner problem. Who's going to fuck someone who turns into a rage monster when he gets hot and heavy? Or, in this case, who has teeth that could take off a finger in three chomps and a body temperature that would look normal if it was Celsius! Even during the apocalypse, no one's daring enough to stick their dick in a fridge._  
  
No, he was only a partial wreck. He'd scrubbed himself down three times and shaved everything not on his head and clipped his nails so he wouldn’t accidentally draw blood with them. He harassed a demon maid into braiding his hair; the end of it hovered between his shoulder blades. His beard had been tamed. He spent a good thirty minutes going through the clothing he had been given before deciding on a bathrobe and nothing more. He didn't want to mess around with clothing when there was sex to be had. The bathrobe would ensure his modesty until they were alone, and then he could drop it and get right to business. Or he could keep it on, hide his toaster rack ribcage, and then Hunson could just lift the bottom up to get to him.  
  
 _I wish I had stockings. I know they don't make many my size or for men in general, really, but I don't want to show him my legs. They're better than my arms and my stomach but I can at least hide those. I know I don't have much to offer. He's a demon lord! I'm just the guy who showed up with his daughter. I know what I look like. I'm so lucky he's willing to do this._  
  
Simon chewed on the end of the pencil. He'd scrubbed off most of his notes to himself; all that was left was a reassuring note in Russian on his shoulder. You can do it!  
  
 _The crown thinks this is a bad idea_ , he wrote. _It says that it's a bad idea because one, he's a demon lord and could easily overpower me, and two, aren't I a little too unstable for this kind of thing? To which I responded one, I don't care, two, that's your fault and I still don't care. I know the funny business going on. It's jealous. I'm not kissing that thing again if I can help it. Note to self: write a note about that when I get back. Note to self: check if I've made that note before._  
  
He was sure the crown was glowering under the bed. He'd banished it there so it couldn't muck with his head on tonight, the holiest of all nights: the night he properly got some after six years. _For a given definition of 'getting some,' given that I want to maintain virgin status so I can continue to use virgin magic; however, given that magic's virginal definition in this case depends on that of my parents and neither of them believed in demons, I should be set._  
  
 _Note to self: I still feel guilty about disappointing Mom. Sorry, Mom, wherever you are. I've tried hard to not mess around before marriage. Until I find Betty, or never, whichever comes first, is when I'm doing the thing that gets a girl pregnant. Penetration. Gosh, I'm bright red just writing it. That's all I can save for you two._  
  
If Betty wanted him when he found her. If she was alive. If, if, if, nothing but ifs for Betty. He slammed his diary shut so he couldn't meander about her again. He was over her. He wasn't going to torture himself thinking about her. Whenever he did, that thing under the bed got both hands well in his brain and squeezed until his brainmeats were nothing but jelly and pain.  
  
Before the crown could say anything, he scooted over the side of the bed so he could look at the crown's box. “I don't want any smart remarks from you,” he said, pointing the pencil at it. “I know you did something to drive her off. It wasn't all my fault! You did something!”  
  
The crown revealed nothing. Simon shoved himself back on the bed and let his face flop onto the pillow. Where was he? Where was his Hunson, all huge eyes and thin-lipped mouth and blunt, eloquent fingers?  
  
The door creaked open. He heard a demon shuffle in. “He's here,” it said.  
  
Simon rolled off the bed and sprung to his feet. “Finally! Thank you, orange thing.”  
  
“My name is Cecil.”  
  
“Cecil, whatever, thank you.” Simon shimmied around it and over to the outside, to the balcony overlooking the living room, and almost tipped over the edge trying to see Hunson. “Hey! Hey, Hunson!” and then he remembered Marceline was asleep and took his voice down to an excited hush: “Mr. Abadeer!”  
  
It was a few heartbeats, an eternity, before Hunson stepped into the living room and looked up at Simon. His shirt was speckled with black. He looked up at Simon for a long moment before smiling back at him. Simon's heart banged against his chest; he took a deep, shuddering breath and tried to keep his calm as Hunson climbed the stairs to meet him.  
  
“You look excited.”  
  
“I am! Lead the way!”  
  
Hunson lead him to his room. Instead of a door, he and Simon walked through a thin black film that left Simon blinking away spots. His bedroom didn't look lived in; the scarlet-sheeted bed was made with cornered tightness that indicated it wasn't used much. It smelled freshly cleaned, like dust and the the sweet soaps the demons used. The carpet wasn't as soft as it was in Simon or Marceline's rooms. The walls were painted a deep liver red. One wall was lined with filing cabinets, with only space for a small door – probably the bathroom. A desk huddled in a corner next to a huge window that overlooked the smoking valley. The ceiling was covered in a similar black film that flashed dots and swirls.  
  
“You have a nice room,” Simon said, yanking his gaze away from the ceiling before he got dizzy.  
  
“Thank you. I mostly use it for work,” Hunson said. He knelt beside the bed and started going through drawers under it. Simon climbed onto the bed and made himself comfortable. It was a very soft bed. Simon hoped that this would not be the first time he’d have the pleasure of lying on it.  
  
“You've been the only person on this bed for a long time.”  
  
“Yep.”  
  
Simon undid the tie of his bathrobe and opened it up, slipped the top over his shoulders. He arranged the robes so they showed an appealing triangle of his chest and hid his knifing hips and xylophone ribs. He ruffled his hair to a come-hither fluff before posing seductively.  
  
Hunson came back up from under the bed with a long box, sitting on his feet as he put the box in front of Simon. “It's been a long time since I used this stuff. I usually only deal in artifacts from the Nightosphere or her cousins.” He flipped the top open, hiding the contents from Simon, and started to rummage through.  
  
Simon resisted the urge to peek. That'd be rude. He couldn't look too eager, after all, or he'd be judged. “Of course. You must not know a lot about Earth. Even if you've met a few people from there, that doesn't translate to knowing about the world, the cultures, what virginity is...”  
  
“Right!” Hunson smiled, all boyish charm, over the lid. “You still need to explain that to me and Marceline. We won't ever need to know but it'll be good to know.”  
  
Something about that sentence bothered Simon, but he couldn't put his finger on it. Instead, he shuffled closer to Hunson on the bed. “I can explain that right here and now, if you want. It has everything to do with why we're meeting.”  
  
“You said you used virginity-based magic to summon me.”  
  
“Yes. That's how I called you.” They were nearly close enough to touch. The bed was tall; Hunson's face was on level with Simon's knee. He'd need to stand or get on the bed for them to do things properly; . He doubted that Hunson's head between Simon's knees was going to happen on the first date. “Summoning circle drawn with candles cursed by chaotic evil wizards lit by candles made from the saponified flesh of humans and fed with the blood of a virgin over the age of 18. Which was me. Is me.”  
  
“Is you. So you haven't done anything to threaten your virgin status lately.” Hunson set out a crystalline orb the size of his fist and a few small bottles of liquid. Simon's heart flipped; there weren't that many places that ball could go and he wasn't sure it could fit in any of his, even with the help of the contents of all the bottles.  
  
“I haven't. Not until tonight.”  
  
“Tonight?” Hunson sat up on his knees, putting his head level with Simon's chest. His face was earnest and his mouth was slightly opened with the remains of his question and his scaly skin radiated heat and blue and he was beautiful.  
  
Simon hadn't the heart to resist. He jackknifed forward on his hands and knees and kissed him, one hand digging into Hunson's shoulder for balance.  
  
Hunson blinked when Simon pulled away. “I don't get it.”  
  
“Wha - “ Simon gaped, then kissed Hunson again. This time, he dared to try and suck at Hunson's lip once he got his nose out of the way. Once he felt like his point had been made, he spoke against Hunson's lips: “What is there not to understand about this?”  
  
“I thought I was teaching you magic?” Hunson wedged his hand between their faces and pushed Simon back. “Magic. You know. Floating and freezing?”  
  
“Magic,” Simon repeated. A sickened laugh bubbled out of him. “Magic, right. My mistake.” He wiped his lips.  
  
“What were you expecting?”  
  
“'Magic,'” Simon said, and felt his face burning as cold spread down the back of his neck. “With quotes. Because we were going to have sex. Virginity relates to one's sexual experiences, that's the joke.”  
  
Hunson shrugged. “No, that was a straight up offer to teach you magic that'd help you with that hat of yours. This,” and he pointed at the crystal ball and bottles, “was to scry so we could find out more about it. Information is incredibly important when dealing with intelligent artifacts, especially of that one's power. That one'd find it easier to simply force you to act rather than ask for your help with its goals. It's a miracle you're not a shell with all the pressure it's already exerted on you. Look at how much it's transformed you! I don't know much about humans but I know the nose, the fangs and the blue aren't natural. The nose is a classic symptom of magic overdose, if nothing else.”  
  
“Oh,” Simon managed. His mouth was hideously dry, and his entire body was going cold where his blush wasn't raging.  
  
“It's quite amazing,” Hunson continued, oblivious to Simon's mounting horror, “that my Marceline was able to find such a powerful familiar in such a scarce environment! I'm just tickled pink. She'll be a wonderful Lord of the Nightosphere when she's old enough to inherit.”  
  
“Lord of the Nightosphere,” Simon repeated. His frigid horror crawled over his face.  
  
Hunson nodded, looking at some distant, happy future. “I just need to figure out when she's old enough to start wearing the amulet. It's strong enough to annihilate the body and soul of any mortal who wears it for, oh, a human year, but I'm sure we can find a way to get her to eat that and make her a full demon once she's hit human maturity.”  
  
“Eat what.”  
  
Simon was sure his voice had, despite his attempts at casual, come out with the flattened dread that was dragging nails down his neck, but Hunson didn't seem to notice as he happily nattered on.  
  
“Her soul! It's not like she needs it now that her mother's dead. There's no point in her going back to Earth now and it's not like Beatrice is alive to complain. Mortality's not all it's cracked up to be. As her only living parent, I need to do what's best for her. She'll be happier here in the Nightosphere, where she'll never want for anything, will never fear death and will eventually stomp out all good and law in the multiverse!”  
  
“You won't,” Simon asked, “ask her if that's what she wants?” His head felt like a glass bell; every word rang loud through the chill emptiness between his ears.  
  
“What else could she want? She's my daughter, made with my own hands and that of her mother.”  
  
“When I called you, you said that this was the first time you had seen her. And again when we talked last week.”  
  
“I lied.” Hunson put the scrying tools back in the box and sat on the bed next to Simon, almost companionable if not for the horrible things coming out of his mouth. He hadn't looked like he was lying. Simon scrambled upright so that their hands would not brush. “I didn't want her to know and I didn't know if I had your cooperation. Too many questions to answer. She'd ask why we didn't stay together or why Mommy was with another Daddy on Earth or why Daddy didn't come when Mommy died. Too much to answer when I just wanted to make sure she was my girl and that she was safe, and that you weren't going to mess things up by telling her.” He smiled, all warmth; Simon returned with a frozen rictus. “You understand. You've not told her things to protect her, haven't you?”  
  
Simon thought of how he gave her all the canned food and the flesh of any squirrel survivors and made sure she was asleep before kneeling over a frozen corpse, the crown whispering about how his new teeth would let him shear through bone and ice easily, how he would never starve as long as there was death.  
  
Simon thought of how he told Marceline to stay in the shelter while he left with the gang of survivors, not knowing what he'd bargained with them to get her medicine for an infected scratch; he thought of how he washed his bloody clothing with melting snow and stemmed the bleeding in the gaps where his front teeth had been before he came back to their tent.  
  
Simon thought of how when he shoved a hand in his pants when they shared a tent and he couldn't wait any longer and he feared waking her, he shoved another in his mouth so she didn't hear him calling Betty, Betty, my love my princess I love you I miss you –  
  
He thought of how he bathed her, clothed her, cut her nails, fed her, taught her how to read and how to play guitar, how he let her yank on his hair and climb on him and smack him with Hambo, how he chased after her when she was rowdy and rocked her to sleep when she had nightmares and carried her when she was feverish and took care of her injuries and soothed her when she cried and when he was so tired that he wanted to lie down and wait for the bombs, he forced himself to move for Marceline, because of Marceline, the parts of his life that had been Betty and the crown had been shoved to the sides for the storm that had overtaken him with the love of Marceline.  
  
And he would never force Marceline, who cared so deeply when they found survivors with sickly children, who cared for Hambo as if he was her own child (who now lay 'sick with fever' in a cradle she'd found in her mother's closet) and who worried over him when the crazy oozed out his ears and reduced him to hiding in his room to stomp out anything, much less all good. He wouldn't tell her things to protect her, but he wouldn't do it so flippantly. He wouldn't decide her life for her.  
  
With the sick surety of someone who had all the corner and edge pieces and had the puzzle's middle falling together, Simon remembered Hunson's comment earlier this afternoon:  
  
“You'll take care of the everyday stuff and I'll do the important things.”  
  
And he'd called Simon a familiar. Familiar, noun, a supernatural being or animal that helped a magic user. Like a pet most of the time. Not a partner in raising a child. Not even the dignity of a wetnurse because at least then he'd be considered sentient.  
  
“And you want me to help you with this,” Simon said.  
  
Hunson nodded. “You've already done a good job of taking care of her so far! She'd never have survived without your help. I just need you to keep on doing all that boring everyday stuff while I help her become Lord of the Nightosphere.” He reached over and put his hand on Simon's, a mockery of intimacy. His hand was so warm, Simon was surprised there was no steam where he melted away. “I need your help to shape her. You've done more parenting than me with her.”  
  
“I have,” Simon said, rolling the words in his mouth. “I've been more of a father to her than you have.”  
  
“Yes! She's very human adult already, absolutely gifted with magic! She'll make up for being stuck on Earth in only a few years! Demons and humans age differently. Demons are born physically matured and their minds catch up very quickly relative to demonic lifespans. Humans have to grow from those tiny things.” Hunson gestured as though babies were very small and he couldn't comprehend why. “Marceline's aging will slow down as she gets older, but she should reach mental maturity when she's about twenty-five earth years old. Maybe thirteen earth years from now.”  
  
“She's eight years old, not twelve. Demons get very old?”  
  
“Yes! I'm thousands of years old, well beyond human comprehension. And she's both, if I'm not mistaken.”  
  
Simon had no idea what the second part of that phrase meant, but he he got the first part like a punch to the stomach. “It'd be like a dog understanding how a human ages.”  
  
“Yes, exactly!” Hunson squeezed Simon's hand, the hot scales on his hand comfortable against Simon's skin. Simon remembered that Hunson had said that demons didn't like touching; had he practiced for this? So he could award his daughter's pet for doing a good job of parenting her for him? For doing his job for him, when he couldn't even be bothered to take care of the child he wanted to turn into some demon heir?  
  
Hunson said something. Simon shook out of his reverie. “What?”  
  
“You alright? You're not responding. Are you having another weird mood swing?”  
  
“Yes! Yes, I am.” Simon scrambled off the bed, quickly pulling his bathrobe closed. “It's weird. Very bad. I should go. We'll do this later.”  
  
“Yes, of course.” Hunson stood, grateful smile full of teeth. Simon stepped back, looking toward the door. Only a few steps there. Not far at all. He knew what he had to do. What he had to get out from his pack. “Let me give you something in way of thanks for what you've done for me and Marceline.”  
  
Hunson's lips were on his before Simon could think, his steely fingers on Simon's shoulders. They were warm and smooth and dragged over Simon's lower lip when he gasped. Simon was too startled to move, to think, his breath trapped in his throat.  
  
Hunson pulled back, a question on his face. “Was that bad?”  
  
“I – that – ” Simon stepped back. Hunson released his shoulders, and Simon managed another step. His breath was rattling around his chest; he couldn't figure out how to get it out of his throat. His third step reeled, and Hunson grabbed him when his fourth step would have sent him plummeting.  
  
Simon thought he had lost all of his complex dignity in the years after the world ended, leaving only enough for the simple indignities of accidentally flashing someone, being caught being unable to leave bed and turning into a caricature of a man. Apparently not; there was enough of that left that being caught and comforted in the arms of the man who had just declared he was going to rip Marceline's soul out that Simon started to cry. The fact that his arms were warm, his suit was soft, how the smell of sulfur had an edge of old books this close to Hunson and how the black spots that crusted his shirt smelled faintly citrus and how Simon's body, held long enough, began to relax against Hunson's – that he was, in some ways, enjoying the embrace – that his body wasn't listening to him again, that tonight had gone bad in the worst ways possible, that Hunson thought he was a dog and would only kiss him as a treat for leading Marceline to slaughter – that his kindness was just to keep Simon in line as a babysitter – just made it worse.  
  
“Oh no. I'm sorry, I didn't realize that was going to set you off.” Hunson tried to help Simon steady himself, which just set Simon into fresh tears. Simon didn't deserve – no, he deserved but not from – he wasn't a dog! “I thought you'd like that. I'm sorry.”  
  
Simon shook his head and shoved Hunson away. “I. I go. I should go. I have go, I'm sorry.” And with that, he bolted.  
  
He didn't dare think about his next act until he had the door safely slammed behind him. He staggered to the bookshelf, his backpack shoved in the bottom shelf. He was sure the crown was laughing at him now, but he steeled himself. It wouldn't matter in a minute. She hated her sister artifact. That would shut her up. That would shut Hunson up if he knew what Simon was planning. It would shut everyone up except Marceline, who loved the one book Simon had never torn apart for firewood.  
  
Simon shoved his hands into his backpack and wrestled until he found the metal-lined binding, then pulled out the Enchiridion.


	9. Chapter 9

The Enchiridion, also known as the Hero's Handbook, was written in many different languages. Simon knew half of them, had learned to read a few more and found translators for the rest when the book had come back to him, leant out to his museum just before the world ended and stolen from it just afterwards. The book was stuffed with translations and notes on the translations, which Simon was grateful for; not only had he learned his first magics out of the Enchiridion, but he'd realized just how bad his memory loss was when he went to reread a section and realized he couldn't understand archaic Arabic anymore.  
  
(And he realized he'd forgotten holidays that he'd only acknowledged and celebrated for his mother; he could barely remember rolling out of bed to eat suhoor with her before dawn rose, breaking fast with sweet dates and boiled lamb’s ears and kvass after sunset, and helping her cook for Eid al-Fitr only came back in the sweet smell of pastries and the heat of ovens, and he could barely remember the taste of barbequed horse for Eid al-Adha. It had been so ingrained in his childhood, in the back of his mind, that he didn’t realize they were gone until he realized he forgot how to pray in the original language.)  
  
The Enchiridion told him how to kiss a princess, how to scry for water and food, how to treat injuries, how to compromise his morals without letting go of them when the world had gone to hell. It had beautiful pictures that Marceline loved to stare at. It resisted stains of all kinds and it was hard enough to whack over an attacker's head until they stopped moving. The only thing separating it from perfection was lack of a universal translator spell.  
  
Tonight, however, he needed it for a different purpose.  
  
He wouldn't be able to use it like he needed to tonight; Hunson was too close, too dangerous. Simon guessed he'd need to mangle a few of Hunson's lieutenants to get it to work properly, too. He only had one of the gemstones needed to activate the portal spell hidden in the cover, after all; he'd need to go kill some demons and crush their magic into tiny ice balls to fake the rest.  
  
It occurred to him that he may have been spectacularly blue-balled tonight, but soon some demons would become blue balls. It was stupid enough that he laughed.  
  
Step one: he needed to go to sleep. He needed to clear his head. Step two: he'd wake up. Step three: he'd make sure Hunson was gone, then go kill some demons. Step four: get Marceline. Step five: make portal, get out.  
  
He wasn't sure where they'd go, but Earth wouldn't do. Maybe the Crystal Dimension. Or – maybe, even with the cheating, he'd make it to the Time Room with Prismo and he could just wish for a safe place for him and Marceline to go to. He was good at wishing. Back when the internet and Betty were still things in his life, they had tooled around with making wishes with no loopholes and found a website all about it. Simon could word a wish easily. He could start planning now!  
  
Simon crawled into bed, holding the Enchiridion to his chest. He wished for himself and Betty reunited happily – no. He wished for the crown to have never interfered in his life in conjunction with becoming friends with Marceline and her mother and for none of them to be harmed by disease, war, or magic for the length of their natural lives and to not come back as mindless undead or lose their souls. That was the ticket.  
  
With that worked out, Simon fell asleep clutching the Hero's Handbook.  
  
~*~*~  
  
“Wake up!” The bed shook. Simon groaned. “Wake up!” Little feet jumped closer to him. Simon fumbled for his glasses, then realized he still had them on his face. “Wake up!” The bed twanged as Marceline landed next to him.  
  
Simon squinted at her. “Good morning?”  
  
“Good morning!” She patted his head. “Wakey wakey! Hambo is feeling better.” She made the doll pat his head. “It's time to eat. Daddy left again so it's me in charge.”  
  
Simon shoved himself to sitting. “Right. Before we eat, though, I want to ask you something.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Do you want to be the queen of the Nightosphere?”  
  
Marceline went hmmm. “What would I have to do?”  
  
“I don't know. Crush good and law and make demons?” Simon shrugged helplessly. “But you won't have a soul. Is that ok?”  
  
“I dunno. Sounds kinda fun.” Marceline flopped onto Simon’s lap. “I dunno what souls do...”  
  
“I don’t know either.” Simon sighed. “You’re too young to decide your future, aren’t you?”  
  
She grinned. “Wouldn’t that make me too young to know?”  
  
“Probably.” Simon shoved his legs up and rolled her off his lap. “Right. Let's eat. Watch the book while I get dressed?”  
  
Marceline taught Hambo how to kiss princesses as Simon put on actual clothing, all blue. The crown liked blue. He'd need its help to pull this off. He pulled the crown out from under the bed and hung it around his belt, then rolled up his sleeves and wrote some notes on his arm in marker, careful not to irritate the scabbed over _I am Simon; I am not king!_  
  
Marceline lead Simon to the kitchen, where he ate enough for three and she ate for an eight year old. Then he found a backpack which would carry the Enchiridion and packed it with food and supplies. The crown hummed on his hip.  
  
Marceline watched. “Are we going somewhere?”  
  
Simon looked at the demon maids running around. They obeyed Hunson as well as they obeyed him and Marceline, and Hunson would recognize his icy handiwork. He couldn't be overheard talking about his mission. “I’m going out on some errands. I’ll be back after a few days, don’t worry. Stay here and don’t come after me.” He showed her his hand, which read Come back to Marceline.  
  
“Ok!” She hugged his knees. “I’ll make you a big breakfast before you go so you can be all strong for it!”  
  
~*~*~  
  
The Nightosphere was hot and humid, but Simon could pull ice from the air without the crown's help. He'd never be thirsty. He climbed the mountain the mansion was on until he found an abandoned crevice; demons followed and occasionally flew over, but stayed a safe distance. They scurried away when Simon put on the crown.  
  
Simon sat, sucking on an ice shard as he negotiated with the crown. He felt her icy arms around his shoulders as they spoke in his mind.  
  
 **We will be separated if you leave by the Enchiridion. You cannot fool it with magic. You cannot do this. It is impossible.**  
  
 _I must do it._  
  
 **I will not allow you to do this!**  
  
 _You will not let me leave through the portal?_  
  
 **No. I will not lose my king**.  
  
 _You do not care for the child. Let me put her through the portal. I will stay here with you. I will turn this hell into the kingdom of ice you desire._  
  
 **This is acceptable.**  
  
 _Will you help me fool the book if I do this?_  
  
 **Yes. My king of ice and snow, we shall have a kingdom. I will give you princesses and princes to woo to sate your loneliness; I will give you children to care for and raise to sate your loneliness; I will give you a kingdom full of histories to study; I will make that man you hate grovel at your feet. If you accept me, I will find the child another home and make you king.**  
  
Simon opened his eyes as cold gushed through him. **The terms were acceptable**. He'd make a way out for Marceline.  
  
~*~*~  
  
The problem of finding powerful enough demons to turn into ice gems wasn’t that much of a problem with the **crown** helping out. **She** knew where to find them. Their magic pulsed in his head, and he followed his headache.  
  
He freed his hair from his braid and finger-brushed it loose, then leap into the air. His hair parted into two wings and he flew.  
  
~*~*~  
  
The first demon lived near another mountain. He had a gaping mouth that ran from the top of his head to just above his hips, and his eyes bulged where nipples should have been. His knees were the wrong way around. He was as smooth as a Ken doll.  
  
Simon caught him unawares. The first ice spike pinned him to the ground; that gave Simon enough time to carve off his backwards legs and taloned hands. The screams arced through his body like music. He tittered as he gathered ice from the atmosphere and crushed the body smaller, smaller, smaller, until it was a small orb of ice and viscera. Simon picked it up and put it in the Enchiridion; it fit like like a finger in a glove.  
  
 **Well done.**  
  
Simon licked his lips; he had been sprayed with black, sour ichor. It was a flavorless sour, like the sugar on lemon candy.  
  
It was delicious.  
  
He shivered. He could feel the blood pumping through him; his appetite for ichor could not be sated by this. Marceline needed the Enchiridion’s slots filled, after all.  
  
(He needed the **screams** to fill him up. He needed **flesh** under his fingertips.)  
  
 **(All hail the king!)**  
  
~*~*~  
  
The second demon spun like a ballerina when Simon came to her crevice. Each crack-legged plie shot fire at him. Simon blocked it with a shield of ice and worked on hemming her into a corner.  
  
Her many eyes spun when he webbed her in with threads of frost. Her fingers broke off from the cold he breathed into her cage before he snapped it shut on her, squeezing until he was spattered with black and another marble of magic hung on the frosted web.  
  
“My princess,” he said, “does this please you?”  
  
On the wind, he heard: **yes**.  
  
~*~*~  
  
The third little demon had some friends with him when Simon landed. They did not have the magic he needed, so he swept them off the cliff with a sweep of his hand and an icy gale.  
  
The demon ran. Simon froze his feet at the joints so that he fell on his face.  
  
He wondered why it ran. Because he was the **king?** Because he was covered in demon blood? **Because he was the great one, he was the great one, he was the great one -**  
  
“Shut up! That’s a prayer, don’t use it for me! That’s wrong! Stop it!” Simon clawed at the crown, trying to get her to shut up.  
  
 **You shut up! While you’re whining, the demon will attack us!**  
  
“What?!”  
  
It spat lightning at him. It charred through his arms and into the ground; Simon screamed. It hurt. He clutched his crown and sent the ice crawling up legs, torso, arms, slowlyslowlyslowly and **crushed it and made it scream for insolence and scream and they screamed and**  
  
  
  
  
  
  
picked up the ball of flesh and ichor and magic. Rocks dug into his knees. The crown pulled back him to his feet like a puppet, straightening his back out. She made his face smooth out and wiped his eyes.  
  
 **You’re doing so well. My king, my prize, I can’t wait for you to be mine.**  
  
~*~*~  
  
  
This one lived in a maze built from a single stone in a deep valley. Simon peered into the entrance and perched on his knees, resting his legs. Would he lure it out? Or would it come to him? Maybe it was too much work.  
  
Should he rest?  
  
 **No, he should go on.**  
  
A shadow fell over him. Simon growled and turned to face the sunless sky.  
  
Hunson, onion-faced and grinning with his sideways mouth, was looking down at him. A small army of demons had followed and lined the edges of the valley.  
  
“What are you doing?” Hunson asked, voice booming.  
  
Simon stood. “None of your business,” he said. “Fuck off.”  
  
“It is my business if you left Marceline and went around killing my minions!” Hunson folded both his tentacled black arms and his normal arms. “You can’t just do that.”  
  
Simon hopped into the air; his hairwings were stiff with ichor, which gave him better lift. He flew until he was on eye level with Hunson. He could feel every demon eye on him. Their stares disgusted him. He spread his arms to give them a little show, bowed to their liar lord, and said:  
  
“I can so do it because I’m the **king**.”  
  
Hunson’s face flickered from mild annoyance to contempt. “Is that it?”  
  
Around them, the demons started muttering to each other. A single word emerged from the froth of their speech. Fight, fight, fight, fight, fight -  
  
“As the lord of the Nightosphere, I accept your challenge.” And with that, Hunson swept at him with one long tentacle hand.  
  
Simon flew above it, gathered water from the air and sliced at Hunson’s onion face. Hunson winced and spun; this time, the blur of his hand was too fast for Simon to dodge as it slammed him into the cliffside. Simon snarled and sent a spike of ice up the palm that pinned him. Hunson dropped him. Simon shoved himself back into the air, wincing - that’d bruise tomorrow - and worked on wrenching to ice out. He could take the arm off -  
  
Hunson was now behind him. How did he move so fast?  
  
Simon spun in midair. Hunson’s many hands flew at him. One hit his leg; Simon shrieked as it cracked and his foot twisted at an unnatural angle.  
  
 **Focus! You’re getting distracted! Get serious or flee!**  
  
Ice shot up his leg and straightened his foot, making a makeshift cast. Simon gritted his teeth and shot a hail of ice shurikens at Hunson. A few grazed Hunson’s face. As Hunson came in for another rain of hits, Simon yanked on the ice in the base of one of the arms with his magic and took it off. Hunson hissed and blurred forward -  
  
“Stop fightiiiiing!”  
  
Simon and Hunson froze and, as one horrified father, turned to see Marceline riding Cecil the orange demon maid.  
  
“I told you not to come after me!” yelled Simon at the same time as Hunson said, “I told you to stay at home.”  
  
Marceline stuck her tongue out at both of them. “Not when you’re fighting! All the demons at home got weird so I ordered them to take me here!”  
  
Hunson sighed. “This battle is between me and Simon. You’re not allowed to intervene until we’re done or the fight will be considered invalid.”  
  
“That’s what I want! I’ll join the fight to stop it!” Marceline pulled out a large piece of paper and put it on Cecil’s huge, one-eyed head.  
  
Simon looked over at Hunson. “What do you mean by ‘considered invalid’?”  
  
But he didn’t hear the answer. As Hunson opened his mouth, Marceline slammed her hand down on the rune-covered paper. Simon recognized the runes for floating things from yesterday.  
  
The ice holding the crown to his head cracked and the crown floated off and smacked Hunson in the face. For a moment, Simon felt emptied out.  
  
Then he realized that, with no magic, he was plummeting out of the sky. Simon screamed. Hunson caught him with one huge hand and slammed him into the ground a few times.  
  
Simon’s head spun.  
  
Something slammed into the ground next to him. Then: “Hold on, we need to figure out how this fight’s going to work out. Give us some space.”  
  
He heard the demons stampede away; when he managed to crack an eye open, there was a cleared space around him. Hunson was walking towards him, crown in his hands; Marceline was running in front of him Once they were close enough, she knelt at Simon’s side. “Are you ok?”  
  
Simon managed to shake his head no. His entire body hurt. He tasted blood from where his teeth had cut the inside of his mouth during the fall.  
  
Hunson tapped her head. “You need to go back home.”  
  
“No way!” She spun back onto her feet. “No fighting!”  
  
“I can’t not fight him. It’s Nightosphere rules,” Hunson said. He crossed his arms. “If I get a challenge for rule of the Nightosphere, we have to fight one on one. I need to take a hit akin to his to make things even, then start the fight again.”  
  
“But I was trying to help!” Marceline stomped her foot as Hunson dug around his collar with his free hand. “It was the fastest way to make you stop fighting!”  
  
Hunson pulled off a pink-stoned amulet with a silver chain and gave it to Marceline.  His suit wooshed off and into it, leaving him naked save for a strap that held a large crimson axe to his back. He was potato-shaped, smooth as a doll and with a doll’s plasticine musculature; his scaly skin gleamed violet under the red sky. “Then get out of the way. It won’t take long to finish this.”  
  
Simon tried to say something, but he still felt all emptied out. It was hard to breathe. He’d probably cracked a rib or two, and he wouldn’t be walking anytime soon. The last of the rush from the crown kept the pain distant enough that he didn’t need to abuse his lungs to scream, but that wouldn’t last.  
  
Hunson tossed the crown onto Simon’s chest. Simon winced. Yep, definitely cracked a rib or two. “Put it back on,” said Hunson. “That’s your power focus, isn’t it?”  
  
Simon blinked. He opened his mouth and wheezed, “Why?”  
  
“To prove I can beat you in a fair fight.” Around them, the demons started to chant fight, fight, fight, and Marceline stared at them wide-eyed and didn’t stop shielding Simon. “Since I’m the ruler of the Nightosphere, I have to be the strongest.”  
  
There were things in there that didn’t make sense. A challenge for rule of the Nightosphere? He was pretty sure he hadn’t done that. But, he thought as he curled one hand over the **crown,** he’d promised **her** a kingdom. Getting rid of the current king to make room for the **new one** was probably necessary. And it’s not like Marceline would mind because she’d **never** see either of them again, safe on a new world.  
  
What was with that amulet he took off? He said he was putting himself on par with Simon’s injuries. Was it what he used to help his magic? Simon remembered feeling a small thing burning him when he’d crashed into Hunson during their first fight a week ago. Was that it?  
  
He put the crown on. **It didn’t matter. He’d kill him anyway.** The pain faded to ice. The crown helped him stand, tugging on his arms and legs as she iced over his injuries. They’d heal to nothing in a few hours.  
  
Something grabbed his legs. He looked down. It was Marceline.  
  
“Marceline, get out of the way.”  
  
“I don’t want you to fight!” She pushed back on him lightly, **as if that would stop him**. He pushed her away equally lightly.  
  
“I need to do this,” he said. “Go. It won’t take long.”  
  
“Simon, don’t!”  
  
“I need to do this,” he repeated. “Go.”  
  
“Simon - “  
  
 **“I said go!”**  
  
Marceline gasped. She backed away, eyes huge. **Something like satisfaction welled in his chest at frightening her, at her taking him seriously**. He smiled and raised his arms, manifesting ice on his body like armor (Maximillian style plate, 16th century, designed to be both beautiful and to protect, and it didn’t matter if his nose stuck out of the helmet ok he looked fine) and creating a 19th century shaska, a  guardless cavalry sabre used for both slashing and thrusting, as his sword.  
  
“I’m the king,” he said, and leveled his sword at Hunson.  
  
“We’ll see about that,” Hunson said, and pulled his axe off his back. “I’ve eaten lesser beings than you for breakfast.”  
  
“You just wish I was in your mouth,” Simon said, and lunged.  
  
Hunson was still fast; he blurred violet as he swung his axe down on Simon’s shoulder. The ice armor held, but Simon’s leg pulsed pain with the pressure on him. He fortified his ice boots to hold him and lashed out with his shaska; Hunson jerked away, and the shaska slit open his chest and not his stomach.  
  
Black ichor spattered the ground and coated Hunson’s body. Hunson’s mouth unzipped in a grin. “The kitty has claws.”  
  
“Do I look like a pussy to you?” Simon tried to drag the shaska down, but Hunson grabbed the blade and yanked. Simon stumbled forward and Hunson used his axe to rock forward and headbutt him.  
  
Simon felt a few teeth come loose. He spat them into Hunson’s face; Hunson winced and Simon used the opportunity to spike his helmet and headbutt him back. Hunson stumbled back, his nose broken and bleeding, then grabbed Simon’s nose and rammed their heads together again. Simon snarled and shoved his shaska into Hunson’s neck.  
  
Ichor spewed out onto Simon’s glasses. Simon twisted the shaska, then slashed it clear before wiping his glasses clear of ichor. Hunson grabbed his arm and spun him around until he dropped the shaska, then slammed him into the ground. Simon pushed himself up but Hunson grabbed him by the hair and slammed him back down again and again until his ice helmet shattered and he felt his nose break. More teeth came loose. He let them dribble out of his mouth with the blood.  
  
 **You idiot! He’s not human; putting a sword through his neck won’t kill him! You should let me take over! You’re going to get killed!**  
  
Simon wheezed for breath as Hunson pulled him up by the hair. His chest still dripped ichor but his neck was knitting back, though his head still hung at a jaunty angle. “Give up?” His teeth were stained black.  
  
Simon spat in his face. Hunson laughed. “You’re pretty strong for a mortal, but you’re not in much shape to fight. I don’t think you want to go until you’re physically unable to move.”  
  
 **Let me take over!**  
  
Simon tried to form another shaska, but his head was still spinning. He couldn’t make it coalesce. It turned into snow in his hand. Hunson stomped on his hand and Simon screamed. He could hear Marceline screaming too, let him go stop it stop now, and he was going to fail her and **lose** and **die** and and and -  
  
 **You can’t use your brain right now! You have a concussion. Let me take over. I’ll kill all the demons!**  
  
“Nnn,” Simon said. The crown's hands were on his face, her icy breath in his ear, and she hung on him as Hunson let him dangle on his knees. “No’...Marsh...”  
  
 _Don’t hurt Marceline!_  
  
 **I won’t.**  
  
The crown’s strength surged through his limbs, sending them spasming; she grabbed Hunson’s arm and snapped it, throwing him to the side. She pulled Simon to his feet and rebuilt his armor.  
  
The last thing Simon saw before he passed out was ice flying from his feet and spearing into the crowd, and a flash of red - Marceline - Hunson scooped her up and yelled, “Demon shield!” and inky black made ice glance away and -

 

 

  
  
  
  
  
 **Kill them all!**


	10. Chapter 10

Ow, thought Simon.  
  
His eyes were frozen shut. He ached in more places than in places he didn’t. But whatever he was lying on was soft against his bare skin, the cuffs around his wrists and neck were padded, his teeth had mostly grown back, and someone had treated his broken leg and ribs so that he couldn’t feel them for the anesthetics.  
  
He lay there for a few minutes before a thought tiptoed into his mind. Why was he handcuffed? It was a good question, he thought, and that fact satisfied him enough that he didn’t try to answer it.  
  
He lay there a few minutes more before another question crawled in beside the first. Where was he? This question seemed a little more important. He rummaged through his mind. What was the last thing he’d done?  
  
He peeled through his memory until he found the relevant pieces. Marceline, the Enchiridion, making a deal with the crown, fighting demons, fighting Hunson, and -  
  
Marceline. Where was Marceline? He told the crown not to hurt Marceline, but the ice had closed in on her before he’d blacked out, and he didn’t know if the blur of scales and dripping ichor that had jumped in front of her was real or imagined.  
  
Simon shoved himself upright and clawed at the ice on his eyes until he cracked it loose and pulled it off. It dropped onto his bare hips and stung cold. The room around him was blurry without his glasses, but he recognized the white walls and white sheets as that of his own room.  
  
He recognized the blue-skinned figure in black sitting next to his bed as Hunson Abadeer.  
  
Simon jerked back, covering his face to protect it. For ten long seconds, no blow came. Simon lowered his arms and peered at Hunson over his arms. His features were barely discernable without his glasses; Simon squinted because he didn’t trust his eyes. Why would Hunson be smiling?  
  
“You’re up!” Hunson continued to possibly smile. Simon stared at him, trying to figure out what his next move was. “I was worried I hit you on the head too many times. I had to call a friend of a friend to make sure you weren’t dead and dress your wounds. I didn’t realize how fragile humans are! Does it really usually take months to heal broken bones?”  
  
“I’m hard to kill,” Simon said automatically. Then the rest of the sentences caught up with him. “Yeah, it usually takes a long time. It’s faster for me.” He ran a finger over the cuff on one wrist. “What are you going to do to me?”  
  
“First I’m going to try and heal you faster because you’re not useful if you can’t walk. Then I want a rematch.” Hunson clapped his hands together.  “No one’s hurt me like that in decades! That was fun! Although I’d prefer if you didn’t challenge me for leadership of the Nightosphere again. Marceline wasn’t happy about how much I had to hurt you.”  
  
“Is she alright?” Simon jerked forward, the chains clanking around him. “Where is she?!”  
  
“Marceline’s fine. She’s outside playing zen garden with my friend.” He waved his hand. “She’s not injured. She’s been asking about you all day, though, but I figured it would be safer if I was the only one here when you woke up.”  
  
Simon nodded, sinking back. “I can,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady, “explain.”  
  
“Oh, you don’t have to. I figured out most of it when I saw how you dropped when your hat got knocked off, and I got the rest when I read your diary!” Hunson’s smile got bigger as he raised up the worn notebook.  
  
Simon felt his heart stop beating before rage crashed through his fear in a hot surge. “You what?”  
  
“You were asleep and couldn't be questioned, Marceline didn’t know what was up and your hat isn’t talking to me right now, so I decided to hear things straight from the rainicorn’s mouth, as it were,” Hunson said like Simon should be pleased with him. “You’ve made some really extensive notes; I’m impressed! Most mortals wouldn’t be able to resist for more than a few months, much less be able to catalogue the effects of the magic and take care of a kid!”  
  
“Why should I believe - give it back! Give it back now!” Simon lunged forward until the collar yanked tight against his neck and his hands could only strain against the chains. Hunson chuckled and tossed the notebook on Simon’s lap; Simon grabbed it and clutched it to his chest. He had written _everything_ in there.  
  
“Just,” he said, “just how much did you read?”  
  
“All of it,” Hunson said.  
  
Simon jerked away like he had been slapped. He’d read all of it. His fears. His fantasies. His, his, his - he couldn’t stand it. He yanked on his hair and clawed at his scalp because he didn’t know how to deal with this. Hunson knew how disgusting and low a vermin he was and he was just smiling like one of Betty’s drunk-carved jack o lanterns and he couldn’t focus on it. He needed another focus.  
  
Then Hunson’s hands grabbed Simon’s and pulled them off him, his face a mockery of worry. “This is your fault!” Simon shrieked and scratched at Hunson’s face, trying to get him off. “Let go of me! I’ll kill you! I’ll kill you and all your demons! Let me go!”  
  
Hunson held him until his screams turned into heaving sobs and tears and snot ran down his face. Simon tried to yank his arms away to wipe his face, but Hunson kept on holding them. They ran down onto his bare arms - he was naked, the only thing between him and Hunson were the sheets, why was this happening - Simon wailed and struggled harder.  
  
It didn’t take long for him to exhaust himself. He felt like he could barely breathe. Hunson kept on holding his cuffed wrists, bug-eyed with worry as if Simon was some filthy sickened dog who’d snap at him at one wrong move. Simon dry-heaved for breath.  
  
“Marceline said not to let you hurt yourself,” Hunson said, as if that excused him.  
  
“It’s not like I can do much worse to myself,” Simon said, “than what’s already been done to me.” He looked up at Hunson and smiled so he didn’t start crying again. “What will you do?”  
  
“What?”  
  
“What are you going to do to me?” He waved his fingers to show off how he was chained, totally at Hunson’s mercy. “I know you’re going to do something. Don’t make me wait. Anticipation just make it worse.”  
  
“I read about all the stuff you wanted in your diary,” Hunson said. “I want to do that!”  
  
Simon shrank. He’d written everything in his diary, every depraved fantasy, every lonely daydream. Hunson knew he wanted it. He knew how Simon would do anything for him. Simon didn’t really want it now, now knowing how Hunson wanted to turn Marceline into a demon. He’d failed to get her out, hadn’t he? And now he was a hostage. Hunson could make Marceline do whatever he wanted with Simon on the line.  
  
Well, he would go along with it. Hunson would leave himself open sooner or later.  
  
“Why don’t we start right now?” Simon said. He curled his hands in Hunson’s lapels and tried not to let his voice quaver. “Take what you want from me.”  
  
Hunson frowned. “I want to give you what you want, not take things.”  
  
“You know what I want,” Simon said. He wiped his face with his shoulder so he wasn’t so snot-covered and tried to smile like he really did want it. If he said it was ok before anything happened, it would be ok. “Just kiss me and be done with it.”  
  
Hunson stared at Simon for a moment as if he was a very difficult puzzle, then cupped his face and pressed their lips together. His touch was gentle; he didn’t shove his way into Simon’s mouth like Simon had to him last night.  
  
Simon started to cry again.  
  
Hunson pulled back. “We're not doing this. I don't understand what you want from me, but I'm not doing anything that makes you cry."  
  
Simon sunk onto Hunson’s shoulder. He smelled like sulfur and old books. His neck had no traces of his earlier partial decapitation. Hunson gingerly wrapped his arms around Simon, staying over his injured ribs, and Simon sniffled.  
  
“I think we’re having another misunderstanding,” Hunson said. “I read enough to know there were a lot of them. You are the light of my daughter’s life, and you have the guts to slaughter a bunch of my demons and to fight me for her benefit even if I don’t really understand why, so I have no reason to lie to you.  We both want the best for her, and hurting you would hurt her, so I won’t hurt you. And demons are sexless, so anything that we would 'do' would be on your terms. (I've been terrible at picking up on your cues for that reason.) Does that make you worry less?”  
  
“Too young,” Simon muttered into Hunson’s shoulder. “Too young to rule the Nightosphere. Too young to choose to. She’s too young.”  
  
“You’re worried I'm going to force her into it. You want her to be safe.”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“That’s why you killed and crushed three demons. The book you brought with you creates a portal when you insert magical artifacts; you were trying to break the system by creating fake artifacts. Good idea, but it wouldn't have worked. Your book’s security system is smarter than that.”  
  
Simon nodded against Hunson’s shoulder. “That’s why she, ah. I saw her shooting ice at Marceline when I fainted.”  
  
“'She' is the crown?”  
  
Simon nodded. “She’s alive. ‘m not crazy.”  
  
“I know you’re not. That was the point of the magic lesson earlier; I wanted to teach you how to deal with your hat which, I guess, you forgot when you freaked out about Marceline.” Hunson shrugged, sheepish. “On a purely pragmatic level, the hat’s too dangerous to be kept around without something to keep it in line. And you won’t be able to on your own for much longer; the strain will kill you.”  
  
“Kill me first,” Simon said, and he giggled. He was drained enough that the thought of her killing him, letting him go free, was hysterical. “I wish. She'd never let me.”  
  
“Kill your soul, then. She only talks about you, inasmuch as she’s willing to talk to me. She’ll take it apart to turn you into what she wants.”  
  
“And you can’t have that if I’m going to raise Marceline for you,” Simon said.  
  
“Right. You’re too interesting to get eaten up by an upstart hat!”  
  
“You don’t need to pretend to be interested in me,” Simon said. “I’m not going to make Marceline into the Lord of the Nightosphere for anything.”  
  
“What part of ‘I want a rematch’ didn’t get through to you?”  
  
“I wasn’t born yesterday,” Simon said. He pushed himself off Hunson so he could look him in the eye, pulling up the sheets over his bare chest so he wasn’t quite so exposed. “Why would a fight change your mind? I’m just a dog to you! Why would you keep me here other than as your free babysitter?”  
  
“Aren’t dogs ‘humanity’s best friend’?” Hunson countered.  
  
“Not when they act like people!”  
  
“You did a good job of acting like a demon when you challenged me for Lord of the Nightosphere. Or was that all your hat’s idea?”  
  
“My crown isn’t the boss of me. She only took over when I couldn’t move! I’m not some puppet for her or you to play around with! I didn’t challenge you; I was telling you that I’m above you, you cunt-faced donkey fucker!” Simon pushed himself out of Hunson’s arms. Hunson just smiled wider. “What’s so funny?!”  
  
“You’re mad,” Hunson said. “So you’re not freaking out anymore.”  
  
Simon snarled and yanked Hunson forward by the tie so he could look him in the eye. “Don’t look so smug about it! I don’t need to thank you!”  
  
Hunson just smiled wider. Simon made a frustrated noise and kissed his stupid handsome smile, then mushed his face in his chest. “Shut up! I’ve had to do this for so long! For Marceline! I’m so tired.” His voice cracked.  
  
“You’re not alone now. That’s what you want, isn’t it? To not be alone. That’s the thing from your diary I want to give you.” Hunson tangled his hand in Simon’s long hair and rubbed his scalp in small circles. “Let’s make a deal.”  
  
Simon nodded.  
  
“You and Marceline both stay here in the Nightosphere. I teach you how to deal with the crown. I teach Marceline magic. If I can’t convince you to let me make her my heir by her 25th birthday, when she becomes physically mature enough to handle becoming a demon, I let you both go. If I can convince you, you both become demons, she becomes my heir and you live in the Nightosphere with me as one of my servants.”  
  
“There has to be a catch,” Simon said, muffled by Hunson’s chest. “Demons don’t make fair bargains.”  
  
“What’s wrong with it? You don’t have anywhere else safe to go. I am her father, and I want to give her a good education. Didn’t you say in your diary that I’d give her the support you couldn’t? You can’t do this alone. You need my help.”  
  
Hunson sounded like he was telling the truth. Simon ran his head around the deal and looked for holes, but he found none.  
  
He did need help. He needed help raising Marceline, and he needed help with the crown. She had tried to kill Marceline again, probably to hide that their quest couldn’t actually get Marceline out of the Nightosphere. Why had she made him do that? Probably in order to force him into that deal to let her take him over. He saw right through that. He saw everything. No one would fool him now.  
  
“If you win, I’ll take you both to the world or worlds of your choosing to live on with enough resources to keep you comfortable for the rest of your lives,” Hunson said. “You brought a way out with you, so I’ll use that since it’s difficult to get out of the Nightosphere otherwise. I won’t punish you for not going along with it.”  
  
“Sure,” Simon said, pleased with his cleverness. He sat up and offered his hand to Hunson. “It’s a deal. If you can’t convince me by the time Marceline’s matured, when she hits her twenty-fifth birthday, we’re free and she won’t become ruler of the Nightosphere. If you can, then we’re yours.”  
  
Hunson shook his hand out of Simon’s hair and shook his hand with it. “Deal. If you win, we leave by your portal to the place of your choosing. If you lose, your fates are mine to choose. The contract is sealed.” A small band of black spun around their hands, then poofed out. “We’ll work out the fine print when you’re more rested.”  
  
Simon nodded. “Thanks. Can you bring Marceline in? As long as the crown’s far off, I’ll be fine around her. I should apologize to her.”  
  
“Sure.” Hunson waved his hand and created a small scrap of paper, then tossed it. It flew under the closed door. “Anything else?”  
  
Simon tugged the sheets back up over his toaster rack ribs. “Clothing and my glasses would be nice.”  
  
Hunson pulled Simon’s glasses out of his pocket and handed them to him. Simon put them on as Hunson stood and tossed Simon clothing in black and red. Nightosphere colors, Simon thought. He chose a long skirt - half a robe? - it was a skirt, fuck it, he would wear whatever he wanted here and it’d be easier to take on and off with his broken leg, currently in a thick and rune-covered cast. And it looked good on him. Hunson snapped his fingers and the cuffs on his wrists and neck fell off.  
  
Simon was pulling a vest over his collared shirt when he heard footsteps thudding in the hallway. The door burst open and Marceline leapt on Simon, who flipped from sitting on the bed to lying on it. Simon tried not to wince as his ribs protested her knees, elbows and whatever she was holding and hugged her back.  
  
“I was really worried because of everything going on and you tried to kill all the demons after Daddy beat the _dermo_ out of you and Daddy had to beat you up again because you were having a crazy moment and a bunch of demons got iced up but they’re really hard to kill so they’re ok and I was really worried when I heard you screaming but Mr. Death said not to worry and I got his feet so that means I win!”  
  
“Don’t swear,” Simon said, then quickly reviewed the rest of what she said. “I’m glad I didn’t hurt anyone permanently.” Blink. “You have whose _feet_?” Another blink. “You have _whose_ feet?”  
  
“Abadeer, your daughter’s almost as much trouble as you are.” A skeleton man with a horse’s skull and a large hat walked into the room on his hands. “Give me my feet back!”  
  
“Sorry,” said Hunson, who was not sorry at all.  
  
“Nyet!” Marceline half-turned and stuck her tongue out. “They’re mine now!”  
  
Simon looked behind him and went nose to toe with a skeletal foot. “Marceline,” he said delicately, “what did I tell you about giving things back when you’re asked to?”  
  
“Do it,” Marceline said, then sighed. “Ok, fine.” She dropped off Simon and tossed the feet back onto Death’s legs.  
  
Death did a flip back onto his feet, tested out one ankle, then looked up to Hunson. “If that’s all, I need to get going. I’m pretty busy.”  
  
“That’s fine. I’ve got things under control here.” Hunson approached Death and they hugged. “Thanks again for coming over and helping me with the human first aid. Say hi to Pestilence Butler for me.”  
  
“I will next time I see him,” said Death. “Take care.” Once their embrace broke, he waved to Marceline. “I’ll see you around, Marceline. It was a pleasure to meet you.” And his gaze went up. “You too, Mr. Petrikov.”  
  
“Thank you?” said Simon.  
  
Marceline hugged Death. Then Death let himself out via the door, leaving Simon with the Abadeers.  
  
“I think I should go back to bed,” Simon said, and sat down heavily.  
  
“No! I”m hungry,” Marceline said. “Let’s eat. Come onnn. All you’ve done lately is sleep and you need to eat. You look like Death because you’re all bones.”  
  
Simon hung his head. “Alright, I’ll go. But I need to walk slow because I messed up my leg.”  
  
“I’ll meet you in the kitchen!” Marceline zoomed out.  
  
Simon sat up on the bed and psyched himself up to stand when Hunson offered him a hand. “Death said that it’d take a couple weeks for you to heal up on your own, and it’d go faster with magic. You’re on magical painkillers that need to be ingested or injected about every six human hours. I don’t know what you want for help mobility-wise, but I do have crutches if you don’t want to fly, and I’ll help if you don’t want any of them.”  
  
Simon took his hand. “I’ll accept your help for now.” He stood and leaned heavily on Hunson so there was no pressure on his broken leg. Hunson wrapped an arm around his waist for support. “Let’s see how willing you are to roll over for me to try and get me to agree with you.”  
  
“A challenge, is it?”  
  
“Maybe I just want to see how much personal service I can wring out of you.” Simon grinned at Hunson, whose returning smile dawned slow with boyish excitement. “Let’s go!”


	11. Chapter 11

Hunson ended up carrying Simon down the stairs. Simon asked to be carried like a bride and Hunson complied, hefting Simon into his arms as if he weighed nothing. It was from his demonic strength, Simon thought; he liked his demonic strength. On a scale from one to ten, he liked it eleven times.  
  
He felt like molten glass that had been blown into a shape and left to cool. He was all hot around the edges, and his chest felt hollowed out. He was ready to be filled with - with something.  
  
Simon, redfaced, didn’t look at Hunson. He’d read Simon’s book, so now he could read Simon like a book, Simon suspected. He’d say something about filling Simon up, alright, and he’d smile so wide and his face would light up and maybe he’d wink and Simon wasn’t sure if he could take that just yet. Their interests in each other were purely business. They were battling for Marceline’s fate. That was all. Any filling done would be in a way to manipulate each other. It was a purely platonic thing, Simon told himself, and tried to believe it.  
  
Hunson set him down on a chair in the kitchen. Marceline, with Hambo’s arms now tied around her shoulders, had her hands on the jam and bread and was making peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. “Dad, get out the milk! Simon needs milk so his bones get stronger!”  
  
“Marceline, drinking milk isn’t going to fix my bones overnight,” Simon said, but he smiled.  
  
“Any little bit helps! And I made Daddy get new milk because I wanted to try what it was like when it’s not powdered so it should be extra good!” Marceline slammed a plate of carrots and sandwiches in front of Simon. “You eat. I’ll take care of the food.”  
  
Simon blinked. “Isn’t that my line?”  
  
“I’m old enough to take care of you!” Marceline ran to the fridge and pulled out the milk, which was in a tall cardboard container. “So you don’t worry.”  
  
Those were his lines again, from when she was younger. You eat, I’ll take care of the food, he’d say when making dinner. Or that he was young enough to still take care of her, despite the beard. Reassurances to the child so she wouldn’t worry.  
  
And now she was saying it to him.  
  
Simon shoved a carrot into his mouth and shredded it to give him something to do instead of think.  
  
Hunson stood by Simon. Simon shoved another carrot in his mouth and ignored him as Marceline poured out milk for all three of them and arranged the table settings. She dragged Hunson into a seat and then hopped onto hers so that they each took up a third of the table.  
  
“You got the sides where the fork and knife and spoon mixed up,” Simon snapped. They’d only started going over how to set a table a few days ago, but he didn’t want her treating him like a child when she was the child.  
  
“Sorry, Simon.” Marceline shifted her silverware around. Simon lifted his spoon and glared at his hollow-eyed reflection, which squinted back.  
  
“This is all fingerfood, too. Do we need this out?”  
  
“I wanted to practice,” Marceline said, and she looked away. “And we might get out food for forks later. You talked a lot about wanting to eat without having to use your hands or plastic stuff when we were traveling.”  
  
“That’s true,” Simon said.  “I’m just wondering if the spoon is a needed thing.” Marceline nodded, frowning.  
  
“Is this really important?” asked Hunson.  
  
Simon huffed. “Of course it is! It’s monumentally important!” He waved the spoon at Hunson. “What will we do if we don’t have our food things in order while we’re eating?”  
  
“The Nightosphere runs on chaos,” Hunson said, then stuck out his long tongue and grabbed the spoon with it.  
  
Simon choked.  
  
Hunson bopped Simon with the spoon. Simon shrank in his chair and Hunson laughed around his tongue, then dropped the spoon in Simon’s lap. “See? Nothing happened.”  
  
Simon snatched it back and slammed it into his sandwich. The plate broke in half; the spoon was left quivering, head half-buried in the wood.  
  
“Does that make you happy?!”  
  
Hunson smiled. “Yes! That was very chaotic!”  
  
Simon groaned and tore off a piece of his sandwich. A few splinters stuck in his fingers; he bit them out and didn’t mind the blood from where his teeth scraped. “Shut up and let me eat.”  
  
“Ok, ok. Marceline - oh, she’s gone,” Hunson said. “It’s just us.”  
  
“Good,” Simon snapped. “I don’t need to be babied by a baby.” He angrily chewed his sandwich.  
  
“Good job, putting her in her place! You’re fitting into the Nightosphere nicely,” Hunson said.  
  
Simon swallowed his bite of sandwich and licked jam and blood off his fingers. “A good demon, am I?”  
  
“Yes! You need to be able to command demons weaker than you and take orders from those stronger than you. The weak obey the strong’s arbitrary rules and the weak get stronger or deal with it.”  
  
“Arbitrary?”  
  
“We _are_ a chaos world,” Hunson chided, smiling. “The rules change on a whim. It’s _my_ whim most of the time since I rule the Nightosphere. Without constant chaos, this dimension will fold in on itself and die; being able to make chaos-making beings is not only important to the entirety of this multiverse but for the health of this world. You doing that stuff is a good sign.”  
  
“I’m hardly arbitrary,” Simon said around another bite of sandwich.  
  
Hunson laughed. “If that’s the case, why did you yell at her for practicing skills you taught her in an appropriate situation?”  
  
Simon peeled the last of his sandwich in half, stuck the two separated pieces of bread to Hunson’s face by peanut butter and jelly, then finished off the carrots and then picked up his milk, then slammed it back on the table.  
  
Hunso peeled the bread off. “Something wrong with the milk?”  
  
“It’s gone bad!” Simon glared at the thick liquid. “It’s bad milk. It smells terrible and it tastes awful. When’s the expiration date?”  
  
Hunson picked up the milk and smelled it. “Seems fine to me. It’s fresh from the bugs of the Crystal Dimension.”  
  
“...It’s bug milk.”  
  
“Yes!”  
  
“From giant bugs.”  
  
“If your definition of giant is about two meters high, then yes!”  
  
Simon let his head hit the table. “I should just go back to bed.”  
  
“That’s it?” Hunson licked the peanut butter and jelly off his face with his long, black tongue, then shrugged. “I guess you’re still tired from the fight. Your notes mentioned mood swings and fatigue as side effects from the crown. This is a mood swing, isn’t it?”  
  
“How wonderful for you to point that out,” Simon said, muffled by the table. “I wonder what clued you in.”  
  
“The part where you mushed a sandwich in my face,” Hunson volunteered.  
  
Simon groaned. “No, you’re right. I’m being difficult. I’m being. I should go apologize to Marceline for being an ass.”  
  
“You didn’t mean to be arbitrary?”  
  
“No,” Simon said, and sunk his voice to a whisper. “I don’t want her to have to take care of me. I don’t want to need to be taken care of. I don’t want to be a crazy old man who needs the help of an eight year old to function.”  
  
“Are you?” Hunson asked, matching Simon’s whisper.  
  
“Look at me. Do I look functional to you? This is why I tried to give her to you and leave. I’m a shitty parent who can’t keep it together. I can’t stop crying half the time, I’m a cannibalistic ice monster the other half and the remaining one percent of me isn’t enough.”  
  
“Cannibalistic?”  
  
“You don’t have to bring _that_ up on top of everything else.” Simon tried to stand up, put pressure on his broken leg, did a double take and hopped onto his other leg. “Ow, ow, ow!”  
  
Hunson caught Simon before he keeled over, and Simon faceplanted into Hunson’s chest. Simon grabbed Hunson before he could think, clutching at him, and let him swing him bridal-style into his arms with no complaint.  
  
Hunson carried Simon into the living room, where Marceline was not. “Hey, where’s my daughter?” he called out. A tall, bronze demon pointed outside, and Hunson carried Simon out.  
  
Hambo watched as Marceline drew runes in the dirt with her finger. Hunson dropped Simon in front of her without so much as a warning.  
  
“Ow! Hunson, you jerk!” Simon rolled around in the red dirt as he tried to sit up without messing up his broken leg. “You didn’t have to drop me!”  
  
“But wasn’t it fun and arbitrary?”  
  
“Don’t you even start."  
  
He squawked as Marceline slammed her hand into her runes and levitated him a few inches off the ground, then yanked him up into a sitting position and dusted his hair off.  
  
“Oh! Marceline. Marceline, what are you - you’re cleaning me off. Yes. Ok. But I, um - no, I - Marceline, stop,” Simon said, curling up with his arms around his knees, unable to meet her eyes. “I’m here to apologize and I can’t if you’re taking care of me. Please stop. Stop, stop...”  
  
Marceline finished by pushing his glasses up on his face and hugged him. “It’s ok. You have days like this a lot.”  
  
“No, it’s not ok. It’s not,” Simon moaned.  
  
“Sometimes you hurt people because you love them,” Marceline said matter-of-factly. “I know you don’t really mean it. I just have to wait until you stop acting crazy.”  
  
“That’s not something an eight year old should say!” Simon jerked forward and hugged her tightly. His eyes stung; he thought he had cried away everything in the bedroom, railing at Hunson, but he was wrong. “Don’t let me hurt you. I shouldn’t be allowed to do that. I’m so sorry.”  
  
Marceline squeaked, “Can you hug a little less tightly?”  
  
“Oh. Oh! Yes!” Simon let go. “I can do that.”  
  
Marceline leaned in and kissed the bridge of his long nose. “See? You stopped.”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
A blur of movement caught Simon’s eye. Hunson had been pacing around them and kicking at dirt as he watched them. However, his latest target for scuffing was the runes for Marceline’s levitation spell.  
  
With them gone, Simon fell on his ass. It was only a few inches, which wasn’t so bad, but he still had his arms around Marceline which meant she toppled over and landed on him, winding him.  
  
Hunson laughed.  
  
“We were having a moment!” Simon snapped and threw a rock at Hunson’s head. “You dingus! You хуй - you craphole!”  
  
Hunson rolled out of the way. “It was just too good an opportunity to resist!”  
  
“I’m going to kick you so hard my foot will go up your ass and out your throat!”  
  
“My arbitrary cruelties are both arbitrary and cruel.”  
  
Marceline got off Simon, walked over to Hunson with shoulders squared  from determination, and kicked him in the shins.  
  
“Don’t!” Kick. “Be mean!” Kick. “To Simon!” Kick.  
  
“Ow!” Hunson hopped onto one leg; Simon knew from experience that  Marceline’s kicks could bruise for weeks. Simon snickered as Hunson hopped away from his daughter. “Why should I?”  
  
“Because I said so! You’re being a donkus, Daddy!”  
  
“Marceline, just because your father is a donkus doesn't mean you have to be,” Simon said, but made no move to stop her.    
  
Hunson hopped faster. “You’re one to talk!”  
  
“I try to make sure Marceline doesn’t repeat my awful crimes,” Simon said primly. “I taught her not to swear, not to be rude, and not to kill people unless they really deserve it.”  
  
Marceline stopped chasing Hunson. “Simon, I thought I’m still not allowed to kill people!”  
  
“No you’re not, sweetheart! But you will be once you are an adult,” Simon said. “You need to be mature enough to decide if you have to kill someone or not because their blood will be on your hands forever.”  
  
Marceline walked over to him and yanked him so that he was sitting up. “I think you need to go to bed. You’re getting weird again.”  
  
“I’m not - ” Simon yawned, then continued, “not weird.”  
  
“You’re always weird,” Hunson said, still on one foot.  
  
“ _Go suck dick in hell_ ,” Simon replied in smiling Russian, then looked back at Marceline. “I don’t think it’s that much of a problem.”  
  
Marceline stared at him for a long moment, then looked up at Hunson. “Demons have to obey each other if they can beat each other up, right? That’s the rule.”  
  
“Yeah. It’s a bad idea to cross someone stronger than you,” Hunson said.  
  
Marceline nodded, then jumped on Simon, knocking him flat on the dirt, and smacked his nose. “Ow!” She slapped him a couple times. “Ow ow ow! Marceline, stop it!”  
  
“Do you give up?”  
  
“Yes, I give up!”  
  
“I beat you! Now you have to do what I say!”    
  
Simon squinted up at her. “You can’t do that. We’re not demons.”  
  
“I’m half a demon and you’re a dummy who can’t take care of himself, so I’m going to do it instead,” she announced. “You are my weakling victim now!”  
  
“No. I’m practically your father. Get off.”  
  
Marceline shook her head.  
  
“I’m warning you, Marceline.”  
  
He heard Hunson walking again; Simon gritted his teeth and tried to lift Marceline off him. “Get off of me, you stupid child.”  
  
“You’re getting super weird, Simon. You should go sleep until you get less weird.”  
  
“Don’t!” Simon roared, and he lifted his hands -  
  
\- and Hunson grabbed them. “Marceline, help me get his legs.”  
  
“I’m not going to take this!” yelled Simon as Marceline helped Hunson get Simon over his shoulder. “Put me down! I’m not a potato bag!”  
  
Hunson carried him into the house with Marceline at his heels; Simon beat on Hunson’s back and screamed and kicked to no avail. But he was still tired from the fight and from his earlier talk with Hunson, so by the time they got to his room, Simon was reduced to scratching at Hunson through his clothing.  
  
Hunson dropped Simon onto his bed. “Sleep.”  
  
“нет.”  
  
“You’ll be better once you sleep,” Marceline said.  
  
Simon made a rude gesture and turned his back on them. “Don’t want to.”  
  
“Go get the crown from my room. It might help,” Hunson said, and Simon heard Marceline run out of the room.  
  
“It’s in your room, is it?” Simon said. “Wearing it in your spare time? Showing off your hot demon looks in my cursed hatware?”  
  
“Your hat is alive and doesn’t like people. I’m not going to put her somewhere she can get loose.”  
  
Simon clutched at his head. “Don’t talk about it like it’s a person. You’ll just give it ideas.”  
  
“You probably will feel better when you sleep. I beat you up pretty badly. A normal human would be dead, though. It’s pretty impressive.” The bed dipped as Hunson sat down behind Simon; Simon didn’t look at him.  
  
He touched Simon’s back. Simon shivered. “Don’t touch me. I’m just a dog to you. You have to scrub off after you touch me.”  
  
“No.”  
  
“You both think I’m a shitty parent.”  
  
“No.”  
  
“You only keep me here so you can laugh at me and put bad ideas in my heart.”  
  
“No.”  
  
“My shoulder angel would be mad but she’s already got so much else written down that I don’t think it matters at this point. Blood doesn’t come off your hands.”  
  
“If I kissed you to sleep,” Hunson said, “would you shut up and let me do it?”  
  
Simon blinked and rolled over to look at Hunson. His expression didn’t look mocking or unpleasant; Simon wasn’t sure how to read it. So Simon grinned. “Are your kisses so boring that they’d put me to sleep?”  
  
Hunson’s face didn’t change from strange. “I know magic. Marceline’s mother taught me sleeping spells.”  
  
Simon tried to imagine Hunson flailing around with runes like Marceline did as her mother (tall, soft-faced like her daughter, with hair as dark and flowing as a waterfall made of night, no doubt) lectured him, and his grin grew better. “And you’ll do it through a kiss? I thought demons didn’t have a sex drive. Giving Simon some pity sex?”  
  
“Yes, it’s pity, no, it’s not sex,” Hunson said, and he leaned over Simon. “This is what you want, isn’t it? Not to be alone?”  
  
Simon swallowed his heart; he could hear it throbbing in his stomach. “I want it,” he said. “You could do anything if you...”  
  
“So I’ll give you what you want if you help me,” Hunson said. “We’ll work out the details later.”  
  
“Then do it,” Simon said, “before I lose my nerve.”  
  
Hunson leaned down and kissed him. His lips were hot and slick with scales. His tongue dipped into Simon’s mouth, and Simon closed his eyes and thrust his tongue back.  
  
He was stricken with fatigue at once. He could barely pull his eyes open.  
  
Hunson hopped off the bed, leaving it shaking. Simon heard Marceline run in; he heard Hunson speak, but he could barely make out the words; he felt a smaller weight hop onto the bed and knew it was Marceline snuggling up next to him. He felt her warmth against his side.  
  
“Love you,” he managed.  
  
“Love you,” she replied; with that, Simon sunk into sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> хуй - dick  
> нет - no


	12. Chapter 12

Simon’s dreams were few and fragmented. When he started to awaken, he could only remember shards of them: being eaten by a shark with a shark inside it’s mouth and another shark in that one, fractal sharks going all the way down and swallowing him whole, or the metal smelltaste of blood and an awful wet warmth on his legs, or the sensation of falling -  
  
\- which woke him up.  
  
He pawed around for his glasses before realizing they were still on his face, then shoved himself up and took a quick stock of the room.  
  
Marceline was gone. The sheets were stained rusty red with dirty from his earlier fight, his clothes were a mess again and so was the rest of him, and when he checked his arms, there was no advice to not yell at Marceline. Only the scabs of _I am Simon; I am not king!_  
  
He felt disgusting. He was disgusting. He needed a shower and new notes and maybe a leash so he couldn’t go and yell at Marceline again, no, he’d almost raised a hand to her and that was wrong. He was wrong.  
  
Simon maneuvered out off the bed; a smudge of black on his cast caught his eye. It took him a moment to recognize the runes scribed on his foot: levitation. So his cast would levitate, he supposed. Hunson had left crutches next to the wall, but Simon tried standing up first.  
  
The runes functioned like a roller skate. He was able to hop-glide across the floor and into the bathroom. Trying to shower like that was too risky, so Simon turned the hot tap on to fill the bathtub and started struggling out of his clothing.  
  
The skirt was filthy and ripped from when he’d fought in the dirt. Unsuitable for further wearing. He could get more, he was sure. Hunson had an infinite clothing drawer somewhere.  
  
Simon thought of a wardrobe opening up and spewing pants and capris and skirts on Hunson and laughed. Then he thought of Hunson getting hit square in the face by some lacy panties and laughed harder. He thought of Hunson being smacked with Simon’s boxers and laughed so hard he teared up. He thought of himself throwing underwear at Hunson, and Hunson pulling the boxers off his head and kissing them as if he were some old movie lead kissing a lady’s hand and Simon sobbed.  
  
When he was done, he turned the water off and started to clean himself, going through the motions of ghusl to purify himself. It wouldn’t be very useful; even if Simon still believed, he was sure he’d done too much to ever be clean before a god again. But the very actions of cleaning himself like his mother had taught him were calming, and he let himself move without thinking.  
  
He then washed himself with a washcloth and soap; he wasn’t going to risk getting the cast wet. He washed his hair, cut it so it only came down to his shoulders, trimmed his beard with grim pleasure, and washed it again.  
  
He dried off and wandered to the door, leaving the bathroom a disaster. Someone else would clean it up, or if they didn’t, he could do it later. He peeked out the door to make sure no one or nothing was in the room, then crept to the closet and picked out clothing.  
  
Shirt. Vest. Boxers. Skirt, again, for ease of wearing. No one could blame him for wearing it with a broken leg.  
  
Simon skate-walked out of the room, very carefully inched down the stairs; once he checked that Marceline was in the house, he made an executive decision and fell asleep on the couch.  
  
~*~*~  
  
Marceline woke him up. He blinked blearily and didn’t move when she urged him to. He didn’t feel like moving. She ended up yanking him to his feet and guided him to the kitchen, where she got out cans of soup, heated them in bowls, and placed one in front of him.  
  
Simon ate mechanically.  
  
“I’m practicing magic outside. Daddy said he’ll be back in a few days when he’s not working. Come on and watch, Simon!”  
  
She took him outside and had him sit on the porch. Simon watched. He applauded her as she showed off all the different ways she could float things and catapult them through the air.  
  
When she was done, she took him back inside and had him eat an apple.  
  
Simon slumped over on the table once he was done eating. “You’re too good to me, Marceline.”  
  
“I know you’re tired and sad and grumpy and need help, so I’m gonna help you like you helped me.” Then she stood on a chair for emphasis. “So you have to help me twice as much when you feel better, so don’t feel bad about it! Or I’ll smack you!”  
  
“Yes, my queen,” Simon said, and he bowed to her.  
  
She giggled and hopped off the chair. “Race you outside!”  
  
“No fair! I’m in a cast!”  
  
“All the better for me to beat you!” she said, and shrieked with laughter as Simon chased after her as fast as he could.  
  
~*~*~  
  
The days passed in a blur.  
  
He ate. He slept. He watched Marceline practice magic and did a little himself. He pulled books from the shelves and read and read them to Marceline. He let her braid beads and ribbons into his hair and choose his clothing. He wrote on himself in Russian to remind himself to not yell, to make sure she was eating properly, to tell himself that the crown was not trustworthy.  
  
It was impossible to avoid the crown completely, but he tried. He put it in boxes under his bed and avoided his room. He threw himself into training Marceline. He thought about demons and how they worked, and about Hunson and how he worked. He slept, then slept more.  
  
He was still exhausted from what it had made him do. It, not she; it was not a person. It was a thing. Things had no power over him. He wrote it just above his left knee in marker so he wouldn’t forget. When he was tempted to go to it, he dug his fingers into _I am Simon; I am not king_ until he ripped the scabs off and he had a fresh, aching reminder not to give in.  
  
And when things got worse, when Marceline slept and the crown called from his room, he shoved one hand down his pants and the other into his mouth so she wouldn’t hear him cry out her father’s name.  
  
~*~*~  
  
Simon did not know how many days had passed was before the note from Hunson came.  
  
A demon knocked on Marceline’s door, and Simon rolled off her bed and staggered over as quietly so he wouldn’t wake her. The demon there, a small fluttery thing with black wings, shoved a hand out at him. Simon flinched away before he realized it held a piece of paper. He took it; the demon perched on top of the door. Simon slit the envelope open with a sharp nail and pulled the letter out.  
  
Hunson’s scrawl was legible enough that Simon didn’t have to squint to decipher it, and the paper it was written on was rough and smelled like smoke.  
  
 _Simon,_  
  
 _Make a list of food and supplies you need. Don’t feel like you have to skimp._  
  
 _Hunson_  
  
Simon nodded and limped over to the couch, took a pen, started writing.  
  
More food, more varieties of it, more like what he could remember from his childhood. Sturdier clothing for Marceline, who roughhoused with the demons. More dresses for him, since they made wearing a cast so much easier. More supplies for washing up, extra pens and pencils, more notebooks. The internet, if he could get it. Some video game consoles and video games and a computer and something that could play music.  
  
 _And_ , Simon finished with a flourish, _time with you_. Which was a silly thing to ask for, but Hunson had said that he would give Simon what he wanted, and that he knew Simon didn’t want to be alone, and he had kissed him and tucked him into bed.  
  
His lips had been hot to the touch. Simon had thought about them, mostly when he knew Marceline was asleep. He wondered if the rest of Hunson was as warm. He had seen him naked during their fight, but his memory of that was fragmented. He remembered how long his ribcage went down, like a snake’s; he remembered how his limbs stretched and angled as if the ligaments inside barely held them together; he remembered how he had been smooth as a doll and how the light rippled on his scales.  
  
Simon signed his name and doodled a heart next to it, then gave it to the demon. “Take this back to Mr. Abadeer,” he said. It nodded and flew away.  
  
With that done, Simon hobbled back into bed. Marceline hadn’t stirred from sleep once. He smiled and took his place on the bed once more.  
  
~*~*~  
  
“I think we should dye your hair blue. Blue is a good color,” Marceline said, and yanked on Simon’s hair as she rode him piggyback around the house.  
  
Simon skidded around a corner, almost crashing into a demon, and replied as it took cover. “I like my hair like this!”  
  
“But you’d look so pretty!” She grabbed his bangs and Simon swatted her hand as he hopped over a discarded mop so he wouldn’t smack it with his bad foot and rounded another corner, smacking into Hunson Abadeer.  
  
It took him a moment to process who he’d just run into, which Hunson took advantage of and lifted Marceline off his shoulders. “How’s my girl!”  
  
“You’re home!” Marceline giggled as Hunson spun away, holding her. “Daddy!”  
  
Simon’s knees went soft. He grasped the wall for support as he watched Hunson hug Marceline, then heft her onto his shoulders and run around the room. He hobbled over to the couch so he could watch them and tried to make his face not seem jealous.  
  
Hunson was her father, after all.  
  
Hunson put her down after a while. “Go into the kitchen. I got you a surprise,” Hunson said, and Marceline shrieked and ran. Hunson smiled after her, then loped over to the couch. “Hey, Simon.”  
  
“Hello, Hunson,” Simon said. He fiddled with his shirt sleeves and looked down. He had thought of Hunson all week, still had red bite marks on his fingers from it, but now that he was in front of him, he wasn’t sure what to say. He had tried to kiss him, then tried to kill him, and Hunson had offered to kiss him back and Simon’s brain felt like thick pudding, the thoughts trudging in helpless slow circles while he stared at Hunson’s shoes and choked on his words.  
  
“I hadn’t expected to see you shy,” Hunson said, and he tipped Simon’s face up. Simon blinked in surprise before Hunson planted a chaste, warm kiss on his lips.  
  
“Oh,” Simon said, and his brain froze up. Hunson offered a hand up and Simon took it, crawling up Hunson’s body to stand in front of him, hands on his shoulders and face against his chest. “Oh, I, ah,” he said, and then rubbed his head against Hunson’s chest as he felt heat spread over his cheeks. He couldn’t think of something to say. How stupid of him.  
  
“You’ve been under the weather?” Hunson asked. Simon nodded, his humiliated flush growing. “We can get some kind of doctor over.”  
  
“No, no, I don’t,” Simon mumbled, “I don’t think I need that. I’m just tired. The crown does that.”  
  
“It used up all your magic and then some, and you broke a lot of things.” Hunson stroked Simon’s face and Simon leaned into it. “It’s natural. But I think it would be good to see how much the crown’s done to you.”  
  
“When Marceline isn’t around,” Simon said. “She can’t know.”  
  
“I know,” Hunson said. “I’m going to wear her out before I get to you! I said I’d give you what you wanted, and I will. Later.” He kissed Simon again, on the corner of his cheek, and Simon caught his mouth and kissed him back.  
  
He ran his tongue over Hunson’s sharp teeth and tested his mouth until he heard Marceline shrieking in the kitchen. Simon pulled back and licked his lips. “I’ll hold you to that.”  
  
“I thought so.” Hunson hooked an arm around Simon. “Let’s go to the kitchen. Going by the shrieks, I think Marceline found what I brought.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ghusl - the full body washing ritual required in Islam for adults who have lost ritual purity before they can pray, do certain rituals, or handle the Qur'an. Unlike wudu, the partial washing ritual that is usually done before prayer, ghusl purifies both major and minor ritually impure acts. Remaining ritually clean is really important because if you can't, you can't pray, and prayer is one of the five pillars of Islam. Simon's disbelieve in God (another pillar of Islam) and what he thinks is an inability to pray means that he isn't fulfilling those pillars, and thus he isn't a practicing Muslim.
> 
> (Note that he *would* be clean enough after doing ghusl or wudu to pray if he was a practicing Muslim.)
> 
> If I've messed up in my information on and portrayal of Muslims, please tell me and I'll fix it at once!


	13. Chapter 13

Marceline had tunneled into the many piles of gifts Hunson had brought when Simon and Hunson got to the kitchen. She was trying on a little outfit that made it look like she was wearing a suit like her father. Several small demons were loading food into the fridge and cabinets. There was a pile of small boxes on top of a larger box, and Simon bolted out of Hunson’s grip once he recognized the one on top.  
  
“Your diary said you liked the Legend of Zelda, so I pulled a few strings to get a copy of as many as I could find,” Hunson said matter-of-factly. “The others are what we had in the Nightosphere; Beatrice brought me some demon-centered games and some alchemized multi-game device before she left, and she never came back for them.” And his expression flickered and became strange. “I put them in storage until now.”  
  
Marceline, now full-suited, snuck one of the game boxes off the stack. Simon grabbed it out of her hands. “You’re a little young to play Persona 3.”  
  
“I want to look at them!”  
  
Simon traded her the box for Ocarina of Time and sat down on a chair. It was a little silly, but he’d missed being able to play video games. Pretending to be Link fighting redeads and bandits had gotten him through a few encounters he wasn’t sure he’d have survived otherwise, and he’d played it with Betty and with his brother and with his friends at college and on the internet and tears started to drop on the box.  
  
“Simon?” Marceline asked, and he knew her question before he even said it. He shook his head.  
  
“I’m just so happy,” he said. “This reminds me of good things I used to have, and I have it back and it’s so good here and I’m just,” and he wiped his eyes, “glad that we made it here.”  
  
Marceline nodded gravely. Hunson smiled at last. Simon wiped his eyes again and looked up at Hunson, beaming. “Thank you.”  
  
Hunson’s smile got even wider. “Did you see what else I got you? Here!” He shoved a pile of clothing into Simon’s arms and then ran off to look at Ocarina of Time with Marceline while Simon went through the pile.  
  
Big fluffy sweaters. Some more skirts. Copies of his old suit. And what unfolded into something red and slinky and lowcut. “Uh.”  
  
“Do you like it?” asked Hunson, who now had a tiny pink hat wedged onto his head courtesy of Marceline.  
  
“No, I do not like it! This dress is inappropriate! It’s all - it’s  - it shows too much! And I’d get cold!” Simon tried to fold the dress up, but Marceline snatched it out of his hands before he could think. “Marceline!”  
  
She stuck her tongue out and put the dress on over her little suit. It was too big for her, and the fabric puddled around her feet.  “It’s mine now!”  
  
Hunson pulled it off Marceline and threw it over his shoulder. “Don’t take things from Simon without asking.”  
  
“But!”  
  
“No. Go sit in the corner for five minutes.” Marceline grumbled and sat in the corner. Hunson watched for a long moment, as if trying to memorize the scene, then walked over to Simon. “You don’t mind if I take over as the mean parent for a while, do you? I read up on it.”  
  
“That’s fine.” Simon said. “I don’t have the energy for it.”  
  
Hunson nodded. “What kind of dress do I get next time?”  
  
“I see. You’re bribing me with clothing,” Simon teased. He thought about what people had called his mother’s clothing, then ran it through a mental translator from Russian to English. “I want something dowdy and prudish and frumpy.”  
  
“I don’t know any of those words,” said Hunson.  
  
“I don’t either!” yelled Marceline from the corner.  
  
Simon opened his mouth. Simon closed his mouth. Simon got off the chair and crawled under the table.  
  
After a long moment, Hunson peeked under the table. “If you’re going to run off for the crown, I can grab you.”  
  
“No, it’s fine. No crowns,” Simon said, then lowered his voice to a whisper. “But I’m the only person alive who knows those words and I don’t want to mess Marceline up by teaching her them.”  
  
“There’s other people alive on Earth,” Hunson said in a normally loud voice.  
  
“Who? The zombies? The survivors who tried to kill us - “ Simon froze up and clapped a hand over his mouth, looked over Hunson’s shoulder to see if Marceline had heard.  
  
She hadn’t. He relaxed. “I don’t know if she needs to know those.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
“They’re related to sex stuff. She doesn’t need all the weird Earth baggage if she’s growing up here, does she? I mean,” and Simon paused as Hunson’s face turned hopeful, “we’re not staying here, she will not be your heir, but there’s other worlds we could visit.”  
  
Hunson frowned. “Yeah, there are. What does it have to do with sex?”  
  
“Tell you later,” Simon said. “Go set up the game device. What do you call it? It’s made up of too many different consoles for me to name it. I just need a few minutes.”  
  
“Beatrice called it her game-a-gon. That’ll work,” said Hunson. “We’ll get you in a bit.” He stood up and called out, “Marceline! Let’s set up the game for Simon!”  
  
“Yeah! Where do we put it?”  
  
“Follow me,” said Hunson, and Simon heard Marceline patter after him, chattering happily. Simon sighed and curled up under the table.  
  
After some time - he didn’t know if it was minutes or hours - familiar music wafted into the kitchen. Simon crawled out from under the table and followed it up and into the library, where Hunson and Marceline were hunched over the game-a-gon and some large TV from who knows where had been set up.  
  
It was really silly to burst into tears at the sight of the naming screen, at the music playing, but Hunson and Marceline had evidently figured out enough about the controls to type in S I M O N.  
  
“We don’t know how to play it,” Hunson said.  
  
“You should play it! It’s important to you and you love it so you should play it,” Marceline said.  
  
Simon took off his glasses and wiped his eyes with his sleeve. “Thank you,” he whispered, and sat down with them. Marceline jumped on him and hugged him tightly; Hunson, after a moment, joined her, totally encircling him with their arms. “Thank you, both of you.”  
  
~*~*~  
  
Simon was not happy to discover that playing an N64 game was not like riding a bike and he died three times in the first thirty minutes of the game. Marceline, meanwhile, was quite happy to have another accidental lesson in Russian cursing until Simon caught himself and switched to golly gosh darns, much to Marceline’s disappointment and Hunson’s amusement.  
  
Both he and Marceline started crying when the Deku Tree died.  
  
All three of them shrieked when the peahat turned into a whirling ball of spikey death and started chasing Link.  
  
“I’m going to marry Ganondorf,” Marceline announced after he gave Zelda, Link and the players a sultry glance through the window.  
  
Simon was so startled that he tossed the controller into the air, which Hunson caught without looking. “What?!”  
  
“He’s cute! Look at him! He has a big nose and nice red hair and cool clothing,” Marceline said. “And he’s a prince. That’s even better.”  
  
“But he’s evil!” Simon said. Hunson coughed meaningfully. “Which doesn’t outright make him bad marriage material because sometimes evil people can be nice and he is very good looking, but you should learn more about him first.”  
  
“Hmm,” said Marceline. “What if I marry him and Princess Zelda? That way, I have a good and an evil wife!”  
  
“And husband,” Simon said weakly.  
  
“No. I will be their woman husband!” Marceline cackled and tackled Simon. “I shall marry you too!”  
  
“You too young for me to marry! And I raised you!” Marceline started to climb all over Simon, and he sighed. “I am not husband material.”  
  
“You will be my wife and I will make you feed me all the time,” Marceline said. Then she laughed. “I’m kidding, Simon! It’d be weird to marry you. Don’t make that face.”  
  
“Oh,” said Simon. He fell back and let Marceline sit on his stomach. “Your silliness has defeated me.”  
  
“No! Who will play the game then?” Marceline hopped off him and onto the couch, raising her hands up. “Come back, Simon! Play the game, Simon! I require your skills, Simon!”  
  
Hunson nudged him. “Do we have to give him the kiss of life to bring him back?”  
  
“How do you even know about the kiss of life?” Simon asked.  
  
“I saw a movie about it,” Hunson said primly. “It taught me a lot about your primitive human cultures.” He waggled his tongue at Simon and leaned over.  
  
Simon smacked his nose with the heel of his hand. “I don’t think so.”  
  
Hunson licked Simon’s hand. Simon honked Hunson’s nose. Marceline cackled and leapt onto her father, who fell very deliberately on Simon, who squawked and flailed under the weight of two Abadeers before pushing Hunson over and sitting on his legs.  
  
Video games were forgotten as the fight devolved into a three-way wrestling match.  
  
~*~*~  
  
In the end, Simon was ultimately the victim of Marceline falling asleep on him halfway through the King Dodongo boss fight. He turned off the game and tv, since he didn’t want to move on without her watching, and shrugged her into his arms.  
  
Hunson followed him quietly as Simon carried her to her bedroom and tucked her into bed with Hambo at her side. Hunson didn’t speak until Simon had closed the door behind them.  
  
“Was that good?”  
  
“You did good,” Simon said. “Good parenting there. I think she had a good time with you.”  
  
Hunson relaxed. “I’m glad. I’m no good at this stuff.” He walked and Simon followed him past Simon’s room and toward Hunson’s. “She’s really getting the hang of levitation magic! She got you right in the face with that pillow!”  
  
“Next time, you get to be target practice,” Simon said, and smacked Hunson’s shoulder.  
  
Hunson looked over at him, a strange expression flitting over his face. “Sorry about the kiss of life thing. I thought that’d be ok.”  
  
“It was funny. It should’ve been ok, it was, it - I wasn’t clear in the letter,” Simon said. He stopped, and Hunson stopped with him. Simon stepped forward and pressed Hunson between himself and the wall. “If I start,” he said shakily, “I don’t know if I can stop.”  
  
Hunson grinned, and Simon watched the movement of his lips. “I’m a demon lord, and Marceline is asleep. Do your worst.”  
  
Simon grabbed Hunson’s face and kissed him, his tongue probing deep. One hand wrested Hunson’s thick hair and wrenched him closer; the other curled around his shoulders, tugging them closer together. He kissed and his teeth scraped against Hunson’s warm lips, ripping off scales; the sour taste of ichor flooded Simon’s mouth and egged him on, closer, more.  
  
He felt Hunson’s hands on his back, holding him up, slipping under his shirt, and Simon whined into Hunson’s mouth and tried to get Hunson’s knee between his legs.  
  
“Bedroom?” Hunson asked when Simon paused for breath. Hunson’s lips were flushed deep purple and black ichor dotted them. Simon nodded eagerly and Hunson half-lead, half dragged him into his bedroom.  
  
Simon staggered onto the bed and Hunson’s hands were at the top of his skirt, and Simon helped him pull his skirt and boxers down over his cast so that he was naked from the waist down. He groped at Hunson’s shoulders as Hunson unbuttoned Simon’s shirt open and traced over his ribs, the curve of his stomach, the bony jut of his hips.  
  
“What do you want?” Hunson asked. He knelt on the floor before Simon, who sat on the end of the bed. “Demons don’t have a sex drive. This is all about you.”  
  
Simon grabbed Hunson’s hand and put it between his legs, rolled fingers around his limp cock. “Touch this. Stroke. Don’t stop.” Took his other hand and put it against his mouth, took two fingers in and sucked on them. Guided Hunson’s mouth to his neck, where he kissed experimentally. “Harder,” Simon said, and dragged his teeth over Hunson’s fingers. “Like this.”  
  
Hunson bit and Simon gasped, arching against Hunson’s hand. He wasn’t hard yet, it took so long to get hard these days but it felt so good and he make embarrassing noises around Hunson’s fingers, hooked his good leg around Hunson’s knee.  
  
Teeth scraped down Simon’s arm, over notes in marker, and sucked bruises in the tender flesh just above the crease of his elbow. Hunson pulled his hand free of Simon’s mouth; when Simon tried to stuff his own hand in his mouth, a reflex for silence, Hunson grabbed it and pinned it to the bed. The other kept on stroking, testing where Simon was sensitive and what made him keen, trying out different grips.  
  
“It’s a funny looking thing,” Hunson said. He stopped kissing Simon’s hip and leaned back, twanged Simon’s cock so it bounced against his stomach. “This is my first time playing with one.”  
  
“D-don’t stop,” Simon stuttered. Now both legs were hooked around Hunson’s shoulders, and his his shirt was damp with sweat. His glasses had fallen to the bed at some point, leaving Hunson’s smirk blurry. “You fucker, don’t stop, I need this. You’re doing perfectly so don’t stop, don’t, please.”  
  
“What if I put my mouth on it?” Hunson asked.  
  
Simon counted backwards from ten so he could resist ramming Hunson’s head down now, fuck, he hadn’t even thought of that, then nodded. “Yes. Softly. No teeth. Don’t want to find out if I can regrow that.”  
  
Hunson opened his mouth too wide, so wide that Simon thought he saw another face inside it, and then he was on Simon, hot and wet and it barely took seconds for him to climax.  
  
He sobbed for breath. Hunson kept on sucking on it, his tongue wrapping around limp flesh until it ached from too much stimulation, and Simon whapped him on the head a few times. “Stoppit. Stop. I’m done.”  
  
Hunson stood and wiped his mouth. There was still ichor left smeared across his face. “Satisfied?”  
  
“Yes,” said Simon breathlessly. He fell back onto the bed. “Yes, yes, yes.”  
  
Hunson rolled Simon so that he was all the way on the bed. “Beatrice always complained that men would fall asleep right afterwards. Are you going to?”  
  
“If you don’t mind me sleeping here,” Simon said, and yawned.  
  
“Go for it,” said Hunson.  
  
Simon crawled under the blankets and had the best sleep he’d had in months.


	14. Chapter 14

When Simon woke up, it wasn’t because the sun or some sudden lamp had intruded on his sleep; he phased awake, gaining slow awareness of the dark, the sheets, the sticky heat that clung to his face. He sat up and pawed for his glasses; his hand brushed only fabric.  
  
He knew where he was. Hunson’s bed was unmistakable, and the smell of him pervaded every last wrinkle of the sheets. Apparently Hunson had let down three curtains of his four-poster bed, and the last was only opened a crack so he wouldn’t completely melt. The air in with him was muggy, and the sheets were warm against his bare legs, his stomach, his groin. He had sunk a good inch into the bed, it was so soft.  
  
It was tempting to just lay there and bask in the sheets. Some part of him wanted to rub against them until he was hard and indulge in touching himself, but the rest of him pointed out that if he did that, the bed would get all wet and would not be nearly so nice to lay in.  
  
It was a dilemma.   
  
Simon stared up into the darkness for a time. He tried to go back to sleep, but his mind was too awake for it to work. A faint and distant tapping and the murmur of Hunson’s voice beckoned him.  
  
At last, he crawled out from under the covers and pulled back one of the curtains. Cool air puffed in against his bare skin. Simon gave the floor a perfunctory glance, to see if his skirt and boxers were still there, but he didn’t see them. He stepped onto the floor gingerly and rubbed his one bare foot against the soft carpet while keeping his weight off the broken one. Then, using the wall to steady himself, he followed the sound of Hunson’s voice.  
  
He did not understand the language Hunson spoke now. It crackled in the air. It lead him toward the far wall, around a corner, and Simon felt the wall change from wood to warm metal. He stepped away cautiously and bumped into something large and round and warm.  
  
“Simon?” Hunson asked, and the bulbous thing moved under Simon’s hands.  
  
“Yes,” Simon said, and patted the large, round thing. It was very hot under his hands, and the skin of it felt smooth, and the flesh under it was set hard and unyielding, like an underripe grape. “Where are you?”  
  
“You’re touching my head,” Hunson said. “Hold on. Lights!”  
  
The lights flickered on. The thing under Simon’s hands was pale green and turned up to him and Simon yelped and stumbled away, falling on his ass. He covered his face with his arms; when no blow came, he lowered them slowly.   
  
It was only then that he recognized Hunson’s onion face. “Oh,” Simon said, and flushed with humiliation.  
  
“You ok?” Hunson asked. Simon nodded slowly. He sat up on his knees and hobbled over, perching his arms and chin on Hunson’s leg. Hunson smiled with his sideways mouth and ruffled Simon’s hair. “Did I startle you?”  
  
“Yes. I hadn’t expected to see this face. I’m used to the other one.” Simon leaned into Hunson’s touch. “What are you doing?”   
  
“Nightosphere stuff. Talking to some friends. Doing research.” A turn of Simon’s head had Hunson’s hand brush over his mouth. Simon kissed the wandering hand, and Hunson sucked in a surprised breath. “What are you doing?”  
  
“Enjoying the morning after,” Simon said, and he began to kiss Hunson’s hand. He kissed the overlarge knuckles and the rough pads of fingers as Hunson stared down at him. He gingerly took Hunson’s thumb into his mouth and rolled his tongue around it, took the rest of Hunson’s hand and pressed it to his face.   
  
He was so warm. No human could be warm like this. It felt good.  
  
Simon stood and climbed onto Hunson’s lap. The fabric of Hunson’s suit was rough against Simon’s bare thighs. Hunson reached out to steady Simon when he faltered, his two hands slipping under Simon’s unbuttoned jacket to rest on his hips. Simon noticed that Hunson still had two tentacle hands reaching over him to keep on tapping at the keyboard, hands that stemmed from the same inner place that Hunson’s onion head did instead of being part of his body, and he nuzzled against one before leaning in and kissing Hunson’s swollen cheek.  
  
“Simon,” Hunson said, and he tried to push him down. Simon pushed back, rocking up against Hunson in the chair so he had him pinned. “Simon, now isn’t a good time.”  
  
“Of course it is,” Simon mumured. He heard tapping keys and ignored them. “It’s always a good time. You’re so good.”  
  
“I’m evil, and you really should get off,” Hunson said, and he tugged Simon’s shirt shut.   
  
“Why?” Simon licked a line up Hunson’s face, next to his sideways mouth. He tasted sour, like the dregs of sour candy powder.   
  
“Because I’m in the middle of a video chat,” Hunson said.  
  
Simon shrieked. The only reason he didn’t fall off the chair was Hunson’s hands on his waist. “What? With who? Why didn’t you say that earlier?!”  
  
“I was trying to! You weren’t listening!”   
  
Simon tried to scramble around, but Hunson held him steady. “Let go of me! They’re going to look at me! Stop it, stop, they’re going to look!” He could hear laughter now, awful laughter, and he quickly started buttoning his shirt up and fumbled with the buttons. “No, no, no, no...”  
  
“Hold on.” Hunson’s lower arms, the ones on his body, tugged off his suit jacket and tied it around Simon’s waist. As long as he didn’t turn to face the screen, he’d be covered up. Hunson had sacrificed his clothing for him. Simon whined and wedged his face between Hunson’s shoulder and his huge head, determined not to let anything look at him. The spirits had looked at him for years. Even before then, people stared at him. They stared. He wasn’t the right color. He didn’t want to be looked at like a freak. Monster. Monster -   
  
Hunson said something and Simon didn’t hear. He repeated: “Is that better?” Simon nodded against Hunson’s face.  
  
He heard keys clack again. “I changed over the screen so that it wouldn't be visible to humans so it wouldn’t wake you. Marceline says you sleep badly and asked me to help with that.”  
  
“Yes,” Simon said.   
  
He heard the laughter again. “Stop that,” Hunson said. “You’re just going to make him worse.”  
  
“Right, right,” said the other voice, and Simon dared to peek around. Death stared back from the huge screen, his mandibles clacking in a skull’s smile. “You’re the one the little girl dragged in. How’s your leg?”  
  
“Healing,” Simon said. He scooted closer to Hunson for security. “My ribs healed up a few days ago, so now my body’s working on the leg.”  
  
“Yes, you have fast healing. I was surprised when I saw that, since most humans couldn’t survive that kind of transformation, but Abadeer’s never hung around normal humans that long.” Death tittered, then took on a more serious pose. “We’ve been discussing your crown. Do you mind talking about it?”  
  
“Why?” Simon fiddled with Hunson’s jacket so it covered the front of his legs, then turned around on Hunson’s lap so he could face Death on the screen. “Are you going to try and steal it?”   
  
“No,” said Death.   
  
“You should,” said Simon. “Take it. I don’t want it.”  
  
“I’d like to, but that’s not an option. It’s - “ Death tilted his head, and Simon felt pierced by his gaze. “You’ve tried to get rid of it before, haven’t you?”  
  
“Yes. So many times.” He took Hunson’s human arm and wrapped it around his waist, took the other and curled it around his chest. He petted one of Hunson’s tentacle arms, which still typed, and snuggled up next to Hunson. He felt safer now. The crown stayed on the edge of his mind all the time, and he didn’t want to talk about it with the skeleton man without some support. He didn’t want to do it alone. “I ran it over and buried it in a ditch and threw it in a lake and locked it away and it always came back. It wouldn’t go away.”  
  
“No. It’s alive, and it doesn’t want to leave you. You’ve become its host.”  
  
“Like a parasite,” Simon said. “It’s feeding on me.”  
  
“No,” said Death. “More like you’re a channel that it interacts with the world through. It’s a crown and can’t move or speak without great effort. If it can use you to move and speak for it, that’s a lot easier.”  
  
“So I’m some sort of seeing eye dog? Or a talking mouth dog, as it were.” He wished he had his glasses back, so he could pretend to clean them and do something rather than just be stared at by Death. He kicked at the air. “If she needs me for that, why not just hijack me completely?”   
  
“Two heads are better than one,” Hunson murmured. His breath was volcanic against Simon’s hair, and something hard and sharp burned against Simon’s shoulderblades. “Sometimes artifacts want company, especially if they and the host are united in the same goal. And destroying the mind of the host would kill the body once the artifact left, so if the crown were blown off your head, you’d be dead and she’d have to find another host to use.”  
  
“Oh. So I’m like her pet and her speaking mouth dog and she won’t let me go because then she’d have to find someone else to possess.” Simon started playing with the sleeve of his shirt. _I am Simon; I am not king_ was still etched into his arm. “So I can’t get her to leave?”  
  
“You could,” said Death.  
  
Hunson tugged Simon closer. “We’ll need to find a new host and get the crown to latch on to them. Most of your physical changes are irreversible, but not sharing your mind with the crown would probably make you feel better.”  
  
Simon closed his eyes. “This is a lot,” he said. “It’s a lot to take in.”  
  
“I know,” said Hunson.  
  
Simon found Hunson’s hand on his chest and squeezed it. “What do you two need from me?”  
  
“Abadeer said your notebooks talk about gaining the crown and what it’s done to you. I’d like to see them,” Death said. “I’d also like to try poking at the crown myself.”  
  
“That’s fine.” Simon looked over his shoulder at Hunson. “Do I need to mail them?”  
  
“It’d be easier if you come here, Death,” Hunson said. “We’ll figure out a time later.”  
  
“Sure, no problem.” There was a crash from the background and Death winced. “I gotta go. It sounds like someone broke into my house again. Probably another soppy romantic who lost their lover again.”  
  
Simons confusion must have shown on his face because Death added: “People come to me to try and revive the dead. It only works if they can beat me in a music battle, though, hehehe.” He made to stand.  
  
“Wait!”  Simon spoke before he thought. Death stopped and stared down at him and Simon’s words spilled out before he could dam them. “If you can revive the death, then you can find out where they are, right? What afterlife they went to?”  
  
“I can.”  
  
“I have to know, I have to, they’re all dead and I just want to know what happened to them and,” and Simon’s brain finally caught up with his mouth and told it that it shouldn’t interrupt the Grim Reaper, “you should go.”  
  
“I should,” Death growled, but he was still smiling. “Talk to you later.”   
  
The screen winked white as Death logged off, leaving a black square that held Simon and Hunson’s reflections. Simon sagged back against Hunson, who felt bonelessly soft. A series of other windows flashed on and off on the giant computer screen as Hunson’s tentacle hands typed, and the chitter of keys was the only thing that interrupted Simon’s heartbeat in his ears.   
  
The balls of his feet could touch the floor, but not the rest of them. His collared shirt was damp and stuck to his skin. Heat curled up on his bare chest and bare legs. The inside of Hunson’s jacket was silky on his thighs, and his human arms were hot and solid and held him tightly, as steady and reassuring as a seatbelt.  
  
Something still burned between Simon’s shoulder blades.   
  
He watched Hunson type. His tentacle fingers stretched and compacted like putty. His long arms wobbled back and forth as he taptaptaptapped.   
  
“Did humans get computers from the Nightosphere?” Simon asked.  
  
“No. I thought they were cool and it’d be an easier way of organizing my stuff, so I commissioned one for me to use. Nightosphere tech is more organic.” In their reflections, Hunson smiled.  
  
“Oh,” Simon said, and he smiled back. “That’s why you have a fridge and a human-like house too, right?”  
  
Hunson’s smile faded, and that strange expression Simon had seen on him before came back. “Something like that,” he said with forced joviality.   
  
Simon stared at his reflection. Despite Hunson having a sideways demon face now, Simon could understand the expressions he made save for this one. He didn’t understand. Maybe it was a demon thing and he couldn’t understand because it was beyond him. No mortal could understand it, like how the crown could not understand when he flung her away when she tried to tell him she had red hair and glasses and he should just accept her as a replacement for what he lost.  
  
“Thank you,” Simon said. He reached for Hunson’s reflection, then pulled back and half-turned on Hunson’s lap so he could face him.  
  
Hunson shook off his strange expression and just looked confused. “Why?”  
  
“For last night,” Simon said, and he wrapped his arms around Hunson’s shoulders. “And for trying to find out what’s up with the crown. And for being so nice to me. I haven’t felt like this in a long time.”  
  
“Like what?”  
  
“Safe.” He rested his head on Hunson’s shoulder. “There aren’t any monsters staring at me and mocking me, and I always have food and a safe place to sleep, and no one’s trying to hurt me and Marceline is safe so I don’t have to worry about her and it’s nice. You’re nice. I don’t have to wait for the other shoe to drop.”   
  
One of Hunson’s human hands rose up and started to pet Simon’s hair. Simon leaned into the gentle touch. “Wouldn’t that be our bet? Freeing Marceline from the terrible fate of ruling a world?”  
  
“I won’t allow it unless you can show me she’d like it and it would be good for her,” Simon murmured. “Otherwise, you’re out of luck. The apocalypse hasn’t chased me off, so don’t think I’ll be easy to budge.”  
  
“Are you sure?” Hunson’s other human hand snuck down and pulled off his jacket, exposing Simon’s groin to the open air.  
  
Simon shivered. Anticipation jetted down his spine and pooled in his cock. “Try me,” he whispered.  
  
Hunson did. His hand was slow and gentle, and it took time for Simon’s second head to perk up and notice what his first head had noticed long before. Simon made small noises as Hunson stroked him, hips twitching up into his touch, and he apologized for how long it took, I still like you, really it just doesn’t work as well as it used to, rambled on and on before Hunson kissed him with his demon mouth and swallowed up his words.  
  
Hunson’s tentacle hand joined in, kneading his balls and rubbing up against the soft skin between his legs. The other stroked and kneaded Simon’s ass as Hunson’s human hand clutched at his hair. All four of his hands pulled Simon closer to him.  
  
Simon came with a shudder, and his yelp was caught by Hunson’s mouth. He broke the kiss to catch his breath, then looked down. He’d made a mess all over Hunson’s jacket.  
  
Hunson followed his gaze. “I can get a new one,” he said.   
  
“I still feel bad. If you hadn’t covered me with it, it wouldn’t have gotten dirty,” Simon said. He untied it from his waist and licked his climax off Hunson’s jacket, careful not to leave a single  dirty spot.  
  
When he was done, he folded the jacket neatly and hung it on Hunson’s shoulder. “I’m going to go get cleaned up and make breakfast. Let’s wake up Marceline together,” he said, and kissed Hunson’s cheek.   
  
Hunson looked even more confused than before. “Ok,” he said.   
  
Simon wiggled off his lap and onto his feet. He kissed Hunson’s temple, his cheek again, his eyelid, before starting to walk away.  
  
“Wait,” Hunson said.  
  
Simon turned back.  
  
Hunson fished into his pants pocket and pulled out Simon’s glasses. “Here. I took these so you wouldn’t crush them while you were sleeping,” he said.   
  
Simon blushed and plucked them from Hunson’s hand. “Thank you.”


	15. Chapter 15

Once Simon had cleaned himself and gotten dressed, he made for the kitchen and whipped up scrambled eggs with a little bit of everything in them. When he was done, he woke Marceline up in her room and carried her down to the kitchen, where Hunson was crouched over the pan of eggs. Simon chased him off with the spatula, then set up plates of food for all three of them.

 

“No bacon?” Hunson asked when Simon put the plate in front of him.

 

“I don’t eat bacon,” Simon said, “and it was faster to make the whole dish at once than to make part with bacon and part without. If it’s a problem, add the bacon on separately.”

 

“Ok,” said Hunson. “Get the bacon.”

 

Simon rolled his eyes. “Say please.”

 

“Why?”

 

“Because you are being a bad example to Marceline,” Simon said, and he waved the spatula at Hunson again. “We use our manners and ask nicely when we want something! You’re very rude.”

 

“I don’t remember you asking nicely this mor -”

 

The bacon package flopped on the table. Marceline smiled up at Simon and Hunson. “I got the bacon!”

 

“Thank you,” Hunson and Simon both said. Hunson smiled and, after a moment of quiet deliberation, ruffled her hair. Marceline giggled and scrambled back to the fridge, pulling out the ketchup.

 

As Marceline drew ketchup faces on her eggs, Simon sat down to eat and Hunson wolfed down two strips of uncooked bacon. Simon rolled his eyes; Hunson stuck his tongue out at him, the pieces of bacon hanging from his mouth like fangs made of meat. Marceline giggled.

 

“So, why no bacon?” Hunson asked.

 

Simon didn’t look at him. “It’s complicated.”

 

“If you’re allergic or something, you should say so!” Hunson said. “Marceline would be upset if you swelled up like a balloon from it.”

 

“No, that’s not quite it,” Simon said. He put his fork down and ran a hand through his hair. “It’s more - it’s - it’s a personal thing.”

 

“What, are you under a geas or something?” Hunson leaned forward, concern lacing his voice. “Did you make a sacred vow? If you have food things you need to stick to, we can do them. I can get any food in the universe.” A pause. “Same goes for you, Marceline.”

 

“Yeah, Simon!” Marceline added. “Tell us what’s going on!”

 

Simon pushed his plate away and rested his forehead on his arms. “It’s a religion thing. I don’t want to talk about it more than that, ok?”

 

“Ok,” said Hunson. Simon heard his fork move against plate and relaxed a little.

 

No sound came from Marceline’s side of the table. He heard her shift. “We ate pig stuff before,” she said.

 

“We did,” said Simon. “I’m allowed to eat haram foods if I’d starve otherwise. Since I don’t have to worry about starving anymore, I’m going back to not eating pork.” He peeked over his arms at her. “You don’t have to worry about that if you don’t want to. I didn’t talk to you about it earlier since food was so scarce. The world was ending and there was nothing left to pray to, so I just tried to make sure you were safe. Besides,” he added, glancing over at Hunson, “I’m not sure how useful it would be to try and worship anything in a hell like this. No offense.”

 

Hunson opened his mouth. He closed it. He cleared his throat. “Actually, demons were specifically made by God in order to keep balance between the alignments and to help with the upkeep of punishing evil souls.”

 

Simon shot up. “What? So you’ve met - “

 

“I haven’t,” Hunson said. “But we have stories about it, and we’re trying to figure out where God went because no one’s sure and it’d be nice to have them back. A lot of the dimensions of the outside are looking.”

 

“Why? I thought you - that demons and djinn and you rebelled and got kicked out of heaven and that’s why you’re evil,” Simon said.

 

“No, being chaotic evil is a moral obligation of demons, given that it fuels our dimension and was the duty given to us when we were created,” Hunson replied, and began to eat again. “Most lower ranked demons are only capable of changing alignment a step away from where they were before, becoming either solely evil or chaotic, and this usually makes them sick. This is because they don’t have free will.”

 

“I don’t get it,” said Marceline.

 

“I wasn’t in any state to teach her theology before,” Simon said, and he perked up. “Tell us more?”

 

“I will. Eat your food, I need to get some stuff in here,” Hunson said, and he picked up a napkin, folded it into a plane and sent it flying out the hallway.

 

They ate. Marceline got ketchup on everything and Simon had to pry a fork out of the ceiling. Hunson had a few demons wheel in a large chalkboard; after he finished eating, he started scribbling over it with chalk.

 

“As you may or may not know,” Hunson said, showing off a three by three square, “the universe generally falls into nine alignments.”

 

 

 

  
Chaotic Good  |  Neutral Good | Lawful Good  
Chaotic Neutral  | True Neutral  |  Lawful Neutral  
Chaotic Evil | Neutral Evil | Lawful Evil

 

Simon raised his hand. “That’s the Dungeons and Dragons alignment grid.”

 

“Is it? This is how Beatrice explained humans to me,” Hunson said. “Nine alignments.” He circled Chaotic Evil. “This is what demons are, Marceline. We’re chaotic and do not like rules. We’re also evil and make our own interests come before the interests of others. However, since the Nightosphere produces beings that will become the minions of other dimensions, demons here must learn how to exist within a system of rules and when to break it and not to break it.”

 

“Why would they not help each other?” Marceline asked. “Helping is good.”

 

Hunson shook his head. “That’s just it - helping is good. Demons are made of chaotic evil. Alignment change will harm us because chaos and evil are essential parts of ourselves.”

 

“And that’s because you don’t have free will,” Simon said. “Demons don’t have souls.”

 

“Yes! That’s it exactly. Demons can move a step away from chaotic evil, becoming chaotic or evil, but it’ll make them sick. Demons don’t have souls and thus have no free will; we must act within alignment or we won’t be demons. This is why we were created.” Hunson drew a circle with some squiggles on it; Simon supposed that if he squinted, it would look like Earth. Then he drew eight circles around the badly drawn Earth. “Mortals with souls can do what they want, but we - outsiders, I guess you can say, soulless beings who are outside of normal worlds - have to stay in alignment.” He labeled each outer circle with Chaotic Neutral, Chaotic Evil, and so on with every alignment except True Neutral.

 

“Is it just me,” Simon said, “or does this all sound like Dungeons and Dragons?”

 

Marceline raised her hand. “What’s a dungeons and dragons?”

 

“A game where you pretend to be someone in a magic world,” Simon said. “They had multiple worlds, which was fantasy because Earth people didn’t know about other worlds like this.”

 

“Exactly!” said Hunson. “Beatrice said this was the easiest way for her to get it, so I figured this was the easiest way for me to explain it to you.” He drew a few stars around the chaotic evil circle. “Any questions?”

 

Marceline raised her hand again. “Do I have a soul?”

 

“That’s a really good question!” Hunson started drawing again. “Yes, you do have a soul because you are half-human. You actually have about a soul and a half since you’ve got some of my demonic essence in there too.” He showed a clumsy drawing of Marceline, in which there was a little “soul” with wings and a little “demonic essence” with a fanged smile.  “Since you’re human, you can be whatever alignment you want. You’ll be more likely to be chaotic and evil because of your demon bits, though.”

 

“Weird. What about Simon?”

 

Hunson nodded and drew Simon. “As a human, he’s free to be whatever alignment he likes. He’s chaotic neutral, though, so that’s good!” He drew a toothy smile on Simon. “Or evil. Whatever. Language is weird. It’s frustrating how English has good the alignment and good the thing that makes you happy as the same word. The language of the Nightosphere separates the two.”

 

“Do we have to learn it?” Marceline asked.

 

“No. Demons can automatically have our languages translated for mortals, so it’s fine.” Hunson whipped his fingers back and forth between himself and Marceline. “I actually learned English so I can speak it really well, but the other demons will be translated by magic.”

 

“Weird,” said Simon, who hadn’t touched his fork in the last five minutes. He switched languages. “ _So can you speak Russian_?”

 

“ _I can with magic. I don’t know how to speak it on my own_ ,” Hunson replied in Russian.

 

Simon switched again. “ _Finnish_?”

 

“ _Yes_.”

 

“ _Arabic_?”

 

“ _Yes_.”

 

“ _Kazahk_?”

 

“ _Yes_.”

 

“ _Chinese_?”

 

“ _Yes_.”

 

“ _Spanish?_ ”

 

“ _Yes_.”

 

“ _How about French_?”

 

“ _Again, magic only_. I like English better. It was Beatrice’s first language, so it’s mine.” Hunson drew a complicated sigil on the chalkboard. “I can only read languages I don’t know with a spell. It’s more difficult if I’m not around the maker of the words.”

 

“Is it a mind reading thing?” Simon’s head was spinning, trying to keep up with everything. His hands itched for pen and paper to write the information down. “Can you read my mind?”

 

Hunson shrugged. “Short answer: no. Long answer: sort of. The magic itself checks your mind; I don’t see anything. Don’t ask me how it works. It’s not my field of magic.”

 

Marceline squirted a big blob of ketchup onto her plate and started scribbling with it on her napkin.

 

“We’ve gotten off topic,” Simon said. “How does demon religion work? Do you just have to do chaotic evil things?”

 

“There’s more, but it doesn’t take a lot out of our days,” Hunson said. “God wanted us to get things done, so the best way to worship is to do things! There’s no food restrictions on us or anything like that.”

 

“Do demons have an afterlife?”

 

“No,” Hunson said. “Demons return to the soup of chaotic evil from which we were born.” Hunson flipped the chalkboard over and started drawing again. “Beatrice compared it to bees being born, since we have spawning areas for formal demon making as well as places where demons just pop up.”

 

Marceline made a satisfied noise as she finished her drawing and held it up.

 

“If demons are bees, do some demons get the queen jelly?” Simon asked. “Is that you?”

 

Hunson nodded. “That’s me.” He fished around his collar and pulled out a necklace with a small square gem set in it. “This is my queen’s jelly. I’ve worn it since I was made and made me Lord of the Nightosphere. When M - .”

 

He wasn’t able to finish. Marceline jumped over the table and onto Simon’s lap again, napkin at the ready  The translation sigil that Hunson had drawn a few minutes before had been copied there in kechup and now glowed. “Roll up your sleeve.”

 

“What?”

 

“I wanna see what you wrote on your arm!”

 

“No.” Simon grabbed his sleeves so they couldn’t get pulled up. “You do not have my permission to read what’s on my arms. Get off.”

 

“Please.”

 

“No.”

 

Marceline huffed and hopped down. “I’ll go find a book to translate to see if I got it right. I’ll be back.”

 

She left. Simon watched her go. “She got your chaos,” he said, and couldn’t help a small smile.

 

“She did,” said Hunson, draping over Simon’s shoulders. Simon relaxed and nuzzled up against Hunson’s face. “Hey, Simon?”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“If you make a list, I can get foods that fit in your food restrictions.”

 

Simon kissed Hunson’s cheek. “That’d be nice. Some of them might be hard to find, though. Used to be a pain to find halal foods in some of the places I lived before the world ended.”

 

“I’ll deal.” Hunson found Simon’s hands and squeezed them. “Simon?”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“‘Nothing to pray to’?”

 

Simon stiffened. “You - that’s - “ He sunk against the chair. “My mother was a very faithful woman. She was very kind and thoughtful and was a good Muslim. She said that Allah has a divine plan for all of us. But after what happened, I think,” Simon said, and he broke his grip on Hunson’s hand to scratch at his scalp, “if that was planned, I don’t want to believe in what planned it.”

 

“I got you,” Hunson said.

 

“My father,” Simon continued, “thought there was no God. The world was too cruel and random for it. I don’t want to believe that either, because if it’s true, then this apocalypse will only get worse. Everyone is going to die if they haven’t already. There won’t be anything left except us.” His vision was going blurry. Simon stopped scoring scratches into his scalp to wipe his eyes. “What’s it say that the nicest treatment we’ve gotten in years was when we went to something like hell?”

 

Hunson caught Simon’s hand before it could start scratching again. “You never have to leave the Nightosphere.”

 

“I don’t know what to do,” Simon whispered. “There’s nothing left except for Marcy. I gave it up for her. I don’t want to give her a hopeless world, but it’s all I see.” He wiped his face again, this time with his shoulder, then looked up at Hunson. “Am I hopeless?”

 

“I don’t think so,” Hunson said. “If nothing else, we’ll give her my demon hope until you get some.”

 

Simon laughed. “For what, magic banana piles?”

 

Hunson got quiet. “That’s not really a thing to wish for here. Did you get one?”

 

“Yeah, a few weeks ago, in front of my room. Why?”

 

Hunson helped Simon stand. “I don’t think you want to know right now. Did you throw them away?”

 

“I ate them.” Simon paused. “Why are you making that face?”

 

Hunson shook the disgust off his face. “They’re the result of a punishment I gave some demons. Next time, if you see a banana, throw it away.”

 

“But they’re still good. I’m not going to throw away food! What if it dis -” Simon turned on his heel and started pacing. “It won’t disappear, I know it won’t, but there’s a chance it might and I don’t want to be stuck with no food again, I don’t want to starve and they were perfectly good bananas!”

 

“They were pooped,” Hunson said, “by a demon.”

 

Simon stopped and considered this. “They tasted fine,” he said, but he grimaced anyway. “Ugh. Why would someone poop in front of my room?”

 

“Demon politics. It shouldn’t happen again,” Hunson said. He took Simon’s hands again. “Let’s go help Marceline read. I want to spend more time with you two before I leave this afternoon.”

  
Simon felt his body melt once more from Hunson’s touch. “Then let us find her,” he said, and tugged Hunson out of the kitchen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haram foods are foods that are not considered permissible for Muslims. Halal foods are foods that are allowed. 
> 
> If I've messed up in my portrayal of Islam or with religious stuff in general, drop me a line and I'll do my best to fix it.


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